


Romancing the Sorcerer's Stone

by shilo1364



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/F, HP: EWE, Inspired by Indiana Jones, M/M, Oblivious Draco Malfoy, Oblivious Harry Potter, Pirate Blaise Zabini, Post-Hogwarts, Supportive Ron Weasley, Treasure Hunter Draco Malfoy, Treasure Hunter Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-01-29 01:29:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 27,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12620072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shilo1364/pseuds/shilo1364
Summary: After the war, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter fall into a strangely comfortable partnership as treasure hunters. Draco turns up rumors of Dark artifacts and cursed treasure through his mostly-legal antiques business; Harry tracks down said treasure. As time goes on, they spend more and more time dashing about the world in search of treasure together.Draco's wife Astoria and Harry's fiancee Ginny wistfully watch them dash in and out of their lives, always focused on one another.The Weasleys look on in fond exasperation.This story is told in three interwoven parts. Golden Snitches is Harry / Draco POV. Silver Stars is Ginny/Astoria POV. Weasleys is mostly Ron POV, with a few others here and there. The chapter title indicates which part/POV the chapter is in.





	1. Golden Snitches

**Author's Note:**

> This story is told in three interwoven parts. Golden Snitches is Harry / Draco POV. Silver Stars is Ginny/Astoria POV. Weasleys is mostly Ron POV, with a few others here and there. The chapter title indicates which part/POV the chapter is in.
> 
> Thanks to [Amahami](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Amahami/pseuds/Amahami) for alpha reading and [1236789](http://archiveofourown.org/users/1236789/pseuds/1236789) for beta reading!
> 
> Come yell at me on [tumblr](http://www.whimsicaldragonette.tumblr.com) if you so desire :-)

**June 2001 — Paris, France**

 

It’s a dead end.

The old jeweler, obviously senile, natters on vaguely about oceans and sapphires as he reclines comfortably in an overstuffed chair pulled up by the counter. Draco seethes, focusing all of his willpower into _not_ fidgeting while pretending to listen. The trail goes cold here, in this dusty jeweler’s shop that ought to have closed thirty years ago. Three years he’s been chasing rumors and tantalizing scraps of information, and all for nothing; three years wasted.

He won’t give up this easily. He’ll pick Potter’s brain again about that last informant — he knew he should have handled that one himself, but how was he supposed to know that the man would turn out to be reliable this time? — and revisit their notes. Surely something will turn up. This can’t be the end.

And it isn’t.

A whiff of perfume tickles his nostrils and the jeweler’s daughter is there, suddenly, standing too close, materializing out of the air beside him without seeming to have moved from her place behind the till.

“Buy something,” she whispers, “so we can talk.” She slips past him, sashaying her hips, and hovers at her father’s side. Her eyes, as she tucks his blanket around his slippered feet and does up another button on his cardigan, are cold and sharp as knives.

Draco looks around, calculating. He owes Astoria; he’s canceled yet another dinner for this trip. His father taught him when he was very young that apology jewels are the grease that keeps society’s wheels spinning; he learned his lesson well.

The wooden display cases glow a warm honey-gold, dripping with jewels and intricately worked silver… But nothing in them will suit Astoria, and he frowns. Might Pansy like this jade necklace? He studies it, tipping his head to the side, imagining her slipping the carved beads through pale, aristocratic fingers, like a monk with a rosary.

They’re not quite right, though — too much yellow. They’ll turn Pansy’s skin sallow, and she’s rather vain about her complexion.

So. What else? He spins slowly in place, but nothing in the shop appeals and the jeweler is beginning to take an interest. His daughter’s eyes flash a warning. She’s clearly not the shy, dutiful daughter he’d first thought her.

Draco is about to risk speaking to her without intending to purchase anything — perhaps he can excuse it by asking to see one of the more delicate pieces in the glass case she’s polishing? — when he sees them.

The glittering emeralds spark and flare as a ray of afternoon light strikes them, and he feels drawn inexorably toward them. He’d thought at first they were earrings, but as he reaches them he discovers that they are cufflinks, exquisite square emeralds set in delicately carved silver, studded with diamonds.

He can’t take his eyes away from the light dancing across the surface.

“These,” he says softly, and his voice comes out strained, a little rough. He clears his throat and tries again. “I’ll take these, please.”

“A lovely choice,” the girl says, blinking up at him from far too close, large sapphire eyes shining as she takes the cufflinks out and begins to wrap them. “They suit you.”

Draco doesn’t correct her, but these aren’t for him. No, these are destined for Potter. He feels a momentary flutter of anxiety. They don’t buy jewels for one another, as a rule, nor has he ever seen Potter wearing jewelry but… it’s Potter’s wedding. Soon, he thinks, a bit surprised. He’d not realized. But Potter’s appearance at such a public affair reflects on Draco as well, and so he’ll just have to see to it that Potter is properly attired. And these cufflinks are the exact shade of Potter’s eyes.

He’s not sure _why_ he knows the exact shade of Potter’s eyes, nor why he can never seem to pass up anything that color. He tells his family and friends that green is his favorite color, which it is; Slytherin green, of course. He does his best to ignore the knowing and faintly pitying looks they send him as he hands out his gifts: a luxurious green cashmere scarf for Mother, an emerald cravat pin for Father, a bolt of green silk for Astoria. They all act like they know something he doesn’t — something he doesn’t acknowledge, anyway — and he willfully ignores all of it. He just likes green, dammit.

He shakes his head, dislodging faint misgivings that perhaps he ought occasionally choose something _other_ than emerald green. It’s a perfectly lovely color, that’s all.

The girl smirks at him as he blinks, startled to find himself in the dusty jeweler’s shop, still.

“Will that be all, sir?” she asks, one brow raised in amusement.

“Er, yes. Yes, that’s all.” He follows her to the counter, leans closer to inspect the proffered box.

She lowers her voice, glances around at her father, then beckons him even closer.

“You’re here about the blood diamond,” she whispers; Draco’s eyes widen.

“Yes,” he whispers back, hardly daring to hope.

She fiddles with the paper as she re-wraps the cufflinks, sapphire eyes winking up at him from under the silky fall of her dark hair. “It will cost you.”

He flashes a roll of muggle bills, angling his body so they’re not visible to the jeweler or the shop windows. “Will this do?”

“It’s not here,” she says quickly, and he fights the urge to roll his eyes. Of course it’s not _here_. “I mean,” she says, “I don’t know everything. My father would have, but he’s not himself these days. But he had a friend — if he told anyone, it would be him.”

“Where can I find him?” Draco’s hopes, so recently forced down, leap irrepressibly to the surface.

“He owns a jewelers in Barcelona,” the girl whispers, glancing again at her father. “Or he did. I don’t know if he’s still there, mind, but I can give you his name. I’m afraid I don’t know the name of the shop.” Her breath is hot against his cheek, faintly garlic-scented.

She produces a pencil from somewhere behind the counter, scribbles on a slip of paper. The bell over the door chimes.

“That’ll be 400 Euros,” she says, a little louder, glancing at the newcomers.

Draco fishes another roll of muggle bills from his pocket and counts out the proper change. He makes sure the girl sees the extra bills he slips under the stack as he passes it over.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling winningly at him.

Draco smiles back distractedly as he tucks the box and paper into the inside pocket of his jacket and strolls out into the sunshine, whistling a merry tune.

He can see her sapphire eyes trained on him, through the window, and her plump lips are pursed into a seductive pout — but she’s _really_ not his type, he thinks, mind already ranging far ahead. Her eyes are too blue.

Barcelona. He can work with that. But first, he’ll have to stop in at the office and see if Sarah can wheedle an express international Portkey out of her contact at the Ministry.

He meanders down the street, peering into shop windows, then ducks into the mouth of a narrow alley and disapparates.

It isn’t until later, lounging in his hotel room with a glass of wine and the day’s notes, that he realizes Astoria’s eyes are the same shade of blue.

* * *

**June 2001 — Barcelona, Spain**

Draco strolls along the bustling street, sipping his too-sweet iced-coffee and enjoying the way the breeze ruffles his hair. It’s early in the day, but already warm enough that the collar of his white linen shirt sticks to his neck and he can feel sweat beading at his hairline. He stares wide-eyed at the fantastic architecture, the arches and turrets and tile mosaics, drinking it all in. There’s nothing like this back home in dreary old England; this feels almost tropical.

Draco doesn’t try to hide his pleasure and astonishment; he’d dropped the stiff Malfoy mask after the war. There’d seemed no point in trying to keep it intact. Even his parents had loosened up, after the Ministry had taken the Manor. Good riddance, as far as he’s concerned. He’d gotten out most of the furnishings, and that, along with their accounts on the continent, had given him his antiques business and a comfortable and cheery townhouse on the outskirts of Wizarding London. He and Astoria share it with his parents, and the arrangement suits them all. Draco isn’t often there, lately, and Astoria and his mother keep one another company.

He passes a mural whose turquoise and white swirls remind him of peacock feathers, and he hopes, not for the first time, that at least one of his father’s birds had bitten the smarmy Ministry representative when she’d come to take possession of the Manor. He doesn’t regret for a second his inability to get the infuriating birds out. His father alone misses the bloody things.

He sighes, thinking of the soaring marble columns and intricate tile floors of his childhood home. He’d loved the Manor as a child, all that fine gilt and crystal, but the Dark Lord has irrevocably tainted it in his mind. He considers himself well shot of it, and of the manners and expectations that went with it.

He pauses at the top of a rise, gazing out over the colorful open-air market below, the white walls and red tile roofs, the gently swaying palm trees, the sunlight sparkling off white sand and crystal-blue water. He draws in a deep breath of the humid, salty air and absently thinks he’ll have to bring Potter here one day; it seems like the sort of place he’d like.

Then he remembers that he’s promised Pansy something from this trip, to make up for missing their last three planned evenings, and grimaces. Salazar. There’s nothing for it — he’ll have to pick up something for her while he’s here. He turns, intending to go back to the boutiques near his hotel when a flash of green makes him pause.

The market spills over into the street here, a riot of color and noise. One of the vendors at the edge of the throng has racks of richly patterned silk scarves on display; they flutter enticingly in the light breeze. They’re too gaudy, most of them, but — there. That one; it’s perfect.

The emerald-green silk faintly glows in the warm light, rippling print suggestive of shady forest canopies, moss and ferns. It will look lovely against Pansy’s sleek dark bob and the vibrant red-orange lipstick she favors these days.

He buys it, not even bothering to haggle with the surprised merchant, then walks on, slipping the neat bundle into his pocket. He can’t afford to dally too long here, or Blaise will surely beat him to the diamond.

* * *

He strides away from the third jeweler’s shop in disgust. How many jewelers can there _be_ in this sodding town? A familiar itch between his shoulder blades niggles at him. He’s being watched.

He pauses at the next shop, pretending to study the wares on offer as he watches the reflection of the street behind him in the glass. Nothing.

Frowning, he moves on, choosing a more indirect approach to his next target.

Perhaps it’s nothing.

The itch is still there, needling him, and his neck prickles with anxiety as his magic swirls uneasily around him. He makes a random turn, then another. The crowd thins abruptly, and he curses himself roundly. He presents more of a target here than back in the main shopping district.

How would Zabini have found him here, though? Surely it can’t be a coincidence.

The answer hits him like a punch to the gut. _The jeweler’s daughter_.

He remembers the customer who entered as he was leaving, the shadowy figure he glimpsed skulking about in the shadows beside the shop. Zabini is after the blood diamond, too.

He probably dashed in to romance the jeweler’s daughter the moment Draco walked out, the bastard. She’ll have given him the name, too — he’s always known exactly what to say to women. He wonders if she remembered the name of the shop for _him_ — if Draco could have wheedled it out of her with sweet words and promises.

Blaise. Blaise _fucking_ Zabini.

He fancies himself an adventurer and treasure hunter too, though Draco considers him more of a pirate. He’s always trying to swoop in and steal their treasure — his and Potter’s.

A hint of movement catches his eye — the swirl of robes? Surely not; this is the muggle section of town. Even Zabini’s not that careless. A cape, then?

His heartbeat speeds up. He has to get out of here, but — ah.

Draco darts into a narrow alley and out the other side, merging smoothly into the flow of human traffic. He ducks and weaves through the press of bodies, before being suddenly brought up short.

He can’t decide if he wants to kiss the street performers or hex them, and compromises by doing neither, pushing through a gaggle of muggle tourists and then separating from the crowd again on the opposite side of the square.

He turns down the mouth of the first likely alley, left, then left again, and then comes up short in front of — a jeweler’s shop.

It’s not the next one on his list, but…

He stops, mind going blank as he takes in the slightly seedy storefront, the drunkenly leaning sign. Sod the list. He _knows_ this is it.

With a quick glance around, he slips inside.

* * *

Across the street, a shadow detaches itself from the side of a stone building and glides closer.

* * *

He calls on all his Malfoy charm and increasingly thinly-veiled threats, finally resorting to a ridiculous sum of muggle money to make his point. He’s lucky he thought to carry so much.

The oily jeweler hefts the pile of coins thoughtfully in a meaty hand, squinting at them, then nods. Draco tries not to look at the dirt caked under his fingernails and into the seams of his hands, the grease-stained shirt that barely covers his portly belly. When the jeweler smiles at him, displaying a mouth full of yellowed teeth, his stomach roils queasily. Draco grits his teeth and grimaces back at him, trying to force his lips up into the semblance of a smile.

The man vanishes the money somewhere behind the counter and then turns back, oozing charm and solicitousness.

Some minutes later, Draco hurries out of the shop, cryptic note clutched in his hand. His mind is already jumping ahead, making and discarding plans as he walks swiftly to the nearest wizarding post office.

He needs to get this information to Potter — and his contacts in Cairo — as soon as possible.

* * *

Unnoticed, the shadow melts away from the door of the adjacent shop and follows.

* * *

> _Potter—_
> 
> _We have a job. Contact Sarah — she’ll have a Portkey for you, and the name of the hotel we’ll be staying at. Don’t bother packing; I’ve asked her to fetch your travel bag from my office. I’ve news of our mutual friend as well. Give my regards to Ginevra._
> 
> _M_ —

 

He bites his lip, arm poised to lift the owl into the air. He’s already dashed off the note and tied it tightly to the bird’s leg, but… It’s Potter’s wedding, after all. Can he really interrupt? He wonders fleetingly if Potter’s wearing the cufflinks he sent; if Ginevra will like them.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter whether Potter is wearing the cufflinks or not. He’ll drop everything the instant he receives Draco’s owl; he always does. It’s just one of those universal constants, like Draco’s weakness for green.

He hesitates again. It seems rude, interrupting Potter’s wedding. A few hours won’t matter, surely? He wonders absently when being rude to Potter ceased to delight him. They aren’t friends now, exactly, but…

His wandering eyes snag on a dark figure staring at him from the shadowy alley across the street; He thinks he catches the glint of gold beneath the hood where an earring would be.

He flings up his arm, launching the owl into the cloudless sky. He’s mildly sorry to drag Potter from his wedding, but… The wedding can wait. The blood diamond cannot.

 


	2. Silver Stars

Ginny sits at her writing desk, quill in hand, and stares down at the innocuous leather book. There’s nothing sinister about it, nothing that should give her pause, and yet.

She sighs. _Start how you mean to go on_ , she thinks, and opens the cover, forces herself to dip the quill in the ink. The motion is jerky, more forceful than she intends, and a few drops of ink splash onto the first pages. She supposes she should feel annoyed or irritated but she actually just feels relieved, for the ink stays where it lands with no sign of sinking into the page. Reassured, she begins.

 

> _Dear Diary,_

She pauses again, heart racing, but the words remain unchanged. A minute ticks past, then another, and her heart slows. She feels a trifle silly — a grown woman, afraid of writing in a diary — but those memories still haunt her nightmares. But that was then, and this is now, and so she begins again.

 

> _I suppose it’s silly to be afraid to write in a diary. I didn’t think I ever would, again. Not after— well. I suppose I don’t have to tell you about that. For you are only a reflection of my thoughts, and I already know how that story goes._
> 
> _So. Why am I writing in a diary now? The same reason as before, I suppose. I’m lonely, and desperate for someone to talk to, as I rattle around in this empty house. I’m not used to the silence. And poor Breezy has sent me away to entertain myself so that she can get dinner started and some of the housework done. I don’t mind that everything isn’t kept in perfect order, but she does. For a house-elf, keeping the Master’s house ready for his return trumps keeping his fiancée from perishing of boredom, more’s the pity. Truthfully, I’m not sure he would notice if I did._

She stares down at the words on the page, watching the glossy ink turn matte as it dries. The words don’t change.

She sighs, sets her quill to the page once more.

 

> _Well, that settles that, I suppose. You’re just a diary; there’s not a whiff of Dark magic about you._

She pauses, staring out the window as she ponders, then scrawls another line before capping the ink and pushing her chair back from the desk. She leaves the book open so the words can dry.

 

> _It’s funny — I’m not even sure if I’m more relieved or disappointed that you don’t write back.  
>  _

* * *

 

 

> _Dear diary,_
> 
> _Harry took me to dinner today. It should have been lovely — a quaint, romantic little restaurant in Paris with a view of the Eiffel Tower — but I couldn’t enjoy it like I wanted because all I could think was that Malfoy probably recommended it._
> 
> _I know I shouldn’t be jealous of Malfoy. I’m the one Harry’s marrying, after all. But I’m not so sure I’m the one he sees._
> 
> _Our table was tucked into a little balcony, and there were fairy lights on the railing, and a single long-stemmed rose in a crystal vase in the center of the table. The faint strains of violin wafted out from the main restaurant, with the enticing scent of chocolate that mixed with the scent of roses and the jasmine that climbed the walls. And it would all have been ever so romantic if only Harry had been focused on me for a change._
> 
> _Instead, he regaled me with tales of his daring exploits and adventures, and it was just a refrain of ‘Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy,’ and if I’m honest I’d stopped listening not long after we were seated._
> 
> _He ordered for me, which was different. I didn’t think much of it; he’d mentioned finding this restaurant with Malfoy. I figured he just knew what was good. And it was. Good, that is. It wasn’t what I would have chosen — I’m just not a chicken person — but it was all right._
> 
> _I was nodding along politely, picking at my salad, chin propped on my hand and probably looking bored out of my mind, but Harry didn’t see it; every other word out of his mouth was ‘Malfoy,’ and his soft smile wasn’t for me._
> 
> _He trailed off, then, apparently losing the thread of his story, and I just waved him off because it didn’t matter — I hadn’t been listening anyway._
> 
> _I offered him a bite of my chicken, since I wouldn’t be able to eat it all, and he looked so… puzzled. I realized, then, what had happened, but I asked, just to be sure. Maybe it was one of their specials. Maybe he’d had it before and really liked it. Maybe…_
> 
> _But, no. He ordered it because it’s what Malfoy always ordered. He’d never tried it; he doesn’t care for chicken either. It’s funny; I’d never realized that._
> 
> _It all felt so surreal. I was confused, mostly. I mean, it was like he didn’t even want me there. Like he would rather be dining with Malfoy. But surely, I thought, I was imagining it…_
> 
> _He frowned slightly, and it almost looked like he saw me, just for a moment. Then his eyes skittered away again and he smiled, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket and presenting it with a flourish._
> 
> _I opened it, feeling my heart sinking as I realized what I was likely to find. I exclaimed over it, of course, and made all the right noises and he didn’t seem to notice that the smile never reached my eyes._
> 
> _Then the inevitable owl swooped down beside us, and he looked up from the note, eyes already far away, and only a trifle apologetic, and I sighed again and told him to just go._
> 
> _I sat alone for a long time at our table for two, staring at my barely touched dinner and the necklace in its velvet box._
> 
> _It’s lovely, truly it is, and so very nearly what I’d asked him for. So he was listening, sort of. Only…_
> 
> _All I could do was smile sadly down at the exquisite pendant of black pearls and a smoky gray stone I didn’t recognize, threaded through a silver chain so fine it was nearly invisible. My hand stole up to touch the silver-and-black-pearl pendants dangling from my ears as I tamped down the traitorous urge to hurl the necklace off that balcony, wishing that just_ once _he’d bring me jewelry that wasn’t a perfect match for Malfoy’s eyes._

Ginny drops her head into her hands, spattering her words with ink. She reaches up to run her fingers across the smooth black pearls that nestle at her throat, wincing again as she remembers.

Sighing, she pushes back her hair and unclasps the necklace, settling it gently back into its box. She stares at it for a moment, then resolutely shuts it back into the desk drawer. She’s going to think of something else, she decides briskly. She’s going to do — well, something, anyway. Anything that will get her out of this empty house.


	3. Weasleys

Molly Weasley smiles around the table at her family. “More casserole Ron?”

“Yes, please,” he says enthusiastically, pushing his plate closer to the serving dish.

“Harry?”

“I’d love some more casserole. You’ve outdone yourself tonight, Molly. I don’t think I’ll have to eat again for at least a week.”

For a few moments there is nothing but the sound of chewing and appreciative murmurs, and then Harry pushes his plate aside.

“So, I’ve got a job now.”

The table goes silent. Molly is the first to recover her voice.

“Oh? Did you — pass the potatoes dear, thank you — did you finally take old Barleycorn up on his offer?”

Arthur looks up, interested. “You’ll love it in the Ministry, Harry. It’s much better than it was before — well. Before. There’s been a lot of changes.”

Harry coughs, coloring a bit. “I’m sure there has, Mr. Weasley, but uh, no. Not exactly.” He turns to Ron. “You know how I went to see Malfoy the other day—“

Ron groans. “Mate. No. Tell me you’re joking.”

Harry frowns. “What? Turns out he needed a partner to help him retrieve some of the artefacts he’s after, and it’s exactly what I—“

“No, Harry,” Ron interrupts him. “Mate. Listen to me. You _hate_ Malfoy.”

The frown lines on Harry’s brow ease, but he still looks puzzled. “Well, yeah. But he’s, y’know, _Malfoy_.”

Ron drops his head to the table with a thunk. “We know, mate. Believe me — we know.”

Hermione pats her boyfriend’s shoulder, offering a knowing smile.

“Well,” she says hopefully, “It’s not like he thinks Malfoy is up to something anymore.”

Ron groans again. “But that’s just it. Now he _knows_ Malfoy’s up to something, only he’s up to it too, and — Bloody _hell,_ Harry. I did _not_ sign up for this.”

“Well,” Hermione says lightly. “Maybe it’s just the price you have to pay, being best mates with the Chosen One and all.”

Harry lobs a roll at her. “Hey! I thought we talked about this. I never want to hear another word about the ‘ _Chosen One’_ crap from you two.”

Ron rolls his eyes. “Mate, if you manage to never again say a word about Malfoy, I’ll swear on anything you like to never say the words ‘Chosen One’ again.”

Harry frowns. “That’s not fair. I can’t very well never mention Malfoy when I’m working with him now.”

Ron’s head thunks onto the table again.

The table dissolves into laughter.


	4. Golden Snitches

**June 2001 — London, England**

Harry shifts nervously from foot to foot, worrying at the emerald cufflinks at his wrists. They arrived just yesterday, with no note to accompany them, but he knows who sent them.

_Malfoy. Will he be here? No,_ he shakes his head. _He won’t come to mine, just as I didn’t go to his. Of course, I was in Peru at the time…_ he smiles, remembering.

He’d been following a lead to an absolutely exquisite cursed gold medallion. Incan, as far as they could guess. Malfoy was ecstatic when Harry dropped it on his desk, flashing that intoxicating smile of his, the one he never let Harry see while they were in school. Harry wonders if things might have been different if he had.

Anyway. Malfoy is… Well, he’s not sure _exactly_ where Malfoy is — he’s pretty sure that much knowledge of Malfoy’s itinerary would be creepy, even for him — but he’s undoubtedly busy unloading the haul from Harry’s last trip and sniffing out a new lead or ten. Malfoy thrives on having a finger in every pot, and his slightly seedy international antiquities business provides plenty of interesting challenges. Some are even entirely legal.

Harry’s only been home to English soil for a few weeks, but already he’s itching to be off again. He lives for adventure, for the adrenaline rush that comes from chasing Malfoy’s baubles. As much as he hated the git in school, he’s come to appreciate the feral beauty that is Malfoy stalking his prey — whether men who whisper rumors of treasure to find, or men who pay handsomely for treasures once found.

Harry stalks the treasure itself.

Malfoy joins him sometimes. He says he can’t trust Harry to grease the right people and to not get into trouble with Dark magic he can’t handle. Harry suspects that, secretly, he sometimes tags along just for the thrill of it.

He tries not to think about it, or about how he likes it when Malfoy joins him on his hunts. It’s just something he doesn’t care to contemplate; it feels safer not to.

* * *

**April 2000 — Somewhere in the Jungle, Peru**

_Fucking Zabini!_

Harry swerves abruptly to the left, as the cold steel blade kisses his right cheek, cleaving the air where he was standing just a second ago. He swears, letting out a muttered string of mixed muggle and magical expletives that draws an amused snort from his assailant. There’s just one now — Bulstrode. Goyle just doesn’t have the stamina for pursuit on foot, especially when tramping through the jungle while shaking off a Jelly-legs jinx, but that doesn’t mean Harry can discount him. He’ll be back, and twice as deadly for being annoyed.

He hears the telltale whistle of the blade and ducks, rolling blindly to the side and down a short slope, hoping he’s not about to send himself plummeting over the edge of the ravine.

He rolls to a stop, cautiously opens his eyes, and freezes.

The angry hiss of the deadly viper before him echoes around him; he’s landed in a nest of them.

Slowly, he grins.

“ _Greetingssss_ ,” he whispers, the sibilant sounds of parseltongue rolling smoothly off his tongue.

* * *

**May 2000 — London, England**

Harry strides into Malfoy’s office, bruised, bloody, and whistling cheerfully. It’d taken three days for Bill to drag him back to civilization, several more to let the wounds heal enough for travel, and another dozen to arrange and complete the journey since they’d been forced to travel as muggles. Now he’s almost feeling himself again, and the heavy weight of gold in his pocket goes a long way to restoring his good humor.

Draco breaks off mid-sentence and turns to glare at him. “Potter,” he says, voice dropping dangerously low. “Where the hell have you been? And, while we’re on the topic, what have I told you about interrupting me while I’m meeting with a client?”

Harry shrugs and tosses the medallion at him. It seems almost to float, turning end over end in a flash of gold until Draco plucks it from the air, seeker’s reflexes still very much in evidence.

He looks down at what he now holds in his palm and blanches. “Is this…”

Harry grins. “Yup.”

“And you touched it with your bare hands?” He looks up at Harry, horrified, as it sinks in. “And _I_ touched it? Potter, how many times have I told you—“

He’s working himself into a fine strop; Harry cuts him off with a snort. “Easy there Malfoy. I had Bill remove the curses on it first.”

“You what.” His voice is dangerously flat, promising a Hermione-worthy tongue lashing to follow.

“Don’t give me that look!” Harry throws his hands up in exasperation. “How else was I supposed to transport it safely? Anyway, the curses on that thing were _far_ too dark for us to deal with ourselves; trust me.” A shudder passes through him as he thinks of how Bill’s face went white beneath his scars as he stared at the results of their detection spells, how he muttered words Harry hadn’t thought he knew.

“Didn’t even have to swear him to secrecy. There’s no way he’s telling anyone anything about that.”

Malfoy’s stare cools further.

Harry groans. “Oh, come _on_ Malfoy. Of _course_ I swore him to secrecy anyway.”

“And have you forgotten that I have a client in the room? Should I swear _him_ to secrecy too?”

Harry grimaces. “Uh, oops? Want me to obliviate him for you?”

“Potter.” He pinches the bridge of his nose in a manner not unlike Snape often had, when Harry was being especially exasperating.

“We don’t obliviate clients, remember? I activated the targeted silencing charm as soon as you walked in. If you can contain yourself for a few minutes — have Sarah fetch you a coffee and a sandwich, and maybe freshen up; you look like hell — I’ll deal with this and then we can talk properly.”

“Dinner? A sandwich is a mighty small reward Malfoy.”

He sighs.

“Yes, yes, whatever will get you out of my office fastest. I’ll finish up in here. And then we can study this,” he tucks it into the special warded drawer on his desk, “and then get dinner while you tell me what on earth left you looking like that. We’ll go to Mazotti’s. It’s Wednesday; you can get that eggplant parmesan you like.”

“Do get Sarah to fetch you something now though,” he calls, just before Harry closes the door. “I can’t have Harry bloody Potter fainting in my waiting room.”

* * *

“You look especially lovely today, Sarah.”

“Oh, hush, you flatterer,” she says, laughing as she swats at him with her magazine.

“I’m wounded.” He holds his hands to his heart. “Anyway,” he adds, swiping the magazine from her, “what are you doing reading this filth at the office? Do I need to have a talk with your boss?”

She grabs it back. “Honestly, Harry. You’ve been hanging around Draco for too long — you’re beginning to sound like him.”

“I most certainly am not. Take that back right now, wench, or I shall have to be offended.”

She rolls her eyes. “What do I need to get you this time, hmm?”

“Food,” he says, pressing a hand to his forehead and pretending to swoon. “I’m fair famished. Haven’t had any food in ages. I shall surely perish before Malfoy gets out of that meeting. I—“

“All right, all right. I’ll get you a sandwich. Just… sit over there and read this magazine while I run to the kitchen. And don’t touch anything on my desk!”

“You wound me—“

“Last time you stole all my paperclips, swapped around all my pens so the caps were on the wrong colors, and hid my stapler. I assure you I have reason.”

Harry plops down on the couch, pouting, and makes a show of flipping open the magazine.

* * *

“Good evening, gentlemen. Your usual?”

The waiter doesn’t bother to bring them menus anymore. Malfoy still insists on getting the wine menu, but Harry secretly thinks it a bit pointless, since he never orders anything new. He suspects the waiter agrees with him.

“Yes, thank you,” Malfoy says, and Harry nods, mouth watering. He can almost taste the eggplant parmesan already, crisp and chewy and golden, dripping with cheese. Heaven in a ceramic casserole dish. Malfoy smirks at him, and he knows he must look ridiculous, but he’s been days out in the wilderness. He’ll enjoy any comforts he can get.

The waiter has hardly deposited their plates and stepped away from the table when Malfoy whips out his wand and erects the strongest silencing charm either of them knows. Moody had taught it to Harry, said he’d developed it himself for use against Death Eaters. _It should work well enough against Zabini and his gang_ , Harry thinks. They rank quite a bit lower than Death Eaters, in his book. An annoyance, really, though a persistent one. The charm will blur their image, too, to everyone outside the bubble of the silencing charm, lest anyone get the bright idea of reading their lips.

They quickly perform the familiar ritual splitting of the salad: raisins and walnuts to Harry’s plate, pineapple and olives to Malfoy’s, everything else split equally, and then spend a few blissful moments appreciating their food.

“Tell me everything,” Malfoy says as he leans forward over his half-empty plate, eyes gleaming, and Harry does.

 


	5. Silver Stars

Ginny stands at the altar, poised and elegant in satin heels and a gown of ivory lace that drips with pearls, and watches Harry lift his harm to catch the tawny owl swooping out of the cloudless sky.

He unties the note, reads it, face brightening — and, really, should a man’s face _brighten_ when he receives a note interrupting his wedding? — and lifts his hand to her in a jaunty half-wave, emerald cufflinks flaring green fire in the morning sun.

She doesn’t bother trying to stop him as he whirls away; there isn’t any point. She’s never been able to stop him when _he_ calls.

She doesn’t cry or scream, and she certainly doesn’t faint. She calmly watches Harry spin away and then stomps a jewel-encrusted heel once — the only outward sign of frustration she allows herself — and curses Malfoy to hell and back in her head. She has no doubts that it’s Malfoy. It’s _always_ Malfoy.

She wonders acidly for a moment if perhaps Harry shouldn’t be marrying Malfoy instead. Then, shaking her head to clear it, she smiles apologetically at their gathered family and friends, announcing that the ceremony will have to be postponed (again) as her fiancé has been called away on urgent business.

“You are of course welcome to stay and enjoy the food,” she says, smiling winningly out at them and forcing a light laugh. _Someone ought to._

She stalks off to rail at Hermione in private as her guests do just that.

* * *

Astoria skirts the edge of the milling — and slightly confused — crowd, fingering the diamond choker around her neck. She flicks each of the three emerald drops in turn in what has quickly become a nervous habit.

 _It’s a stunning necklace_ , she thinks, a trifle sadly. _Draco has outdone himself with this latest set of apology jewels. If only they weren’t emeralds I might be able to enjoy them more._

She sighs, dropping her hand. She’d have preferred the dinner. It had been their anniversary — not that Draco had noticed — and she’d planned an evening of his favorite things. Of course, she’d forgotten the one thing he prizes above all others: a new treasure to hunt with Potter.

She reaches up and unclasps the necklace before she can change her mind, clenching it in her fist as she weaves her way through the crowd

It will look stunning on Ginevra’s pale throat, against that fiery mane of hair.

 _And,_ she thinks wryly _, it matches her soon-to-be-husband’s eyes._ _At least, he will be her husband, assuming Draco ever lets him alone long enough for the wedding to actually take place._

She pauses, seeing Potter’s face again in her mind’s eye, the way it brightened as he scanned the note.

Perhaps Potter doesn’t mind being dragged all over the world at her husband’s whim.

She fingers the emeralds again, wondering. She saw their constant animosity in school of course; they all did. But maybe there was something else underlying those years of tension that they all missed.

She hurries her steps, determined to reach Ginevra before she is spirited away by her determined, bushy-haired friend. They have things to discuss, after all.


	6. Weasleys

Ron pats Harry’s shoulder absently, worrying his lip between his teeth as he brushes a few imaginary specks of lint off Harry’s jacket. “Y’know, mate,” he says, forehead creasing into a worried frown despite his best efforts to keep a straight face, “you don’t have to go through with it.”

Harry stares incredulously at him.

Ron backtracks hastily.

“I mean, of course, we’d love to have you as part of the family mate, all legal and such — you know that. But, well, you are anyway, you know? You don’t have to marry Ginny just to be my brother.”

Harry holds his gaze for a moment, green eyes oddly intense. Then he throws his head back and laughs.

“Ron,” he says, raising an eyebrow in a way that Ron feels that he really ought to recognize, but can’t quite place, “I’m not marrying Gin _just_ to be your brother.”

He leers at him, the expression seeming out-of-place on his familiar face.

“Anyway,” he says dismissively, brushing his friend’s unease aside, “we all knew I’d marry her eventually, didn’t we?”

Ron can’t help but feel that that isn’t quite the right sentiment either, but he doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t think anything he could say would get through to Harry anyway.

He pats his shoulder again and wanders off to talk to Hermione. Surely _she’ll_ know what to say to make him feel better; she always does.

Unfortunately, all she has time for is a soft huff of “Oh, Ronald,” that doesn’t do anything to allay his unease, before she sprints off after his sister. Harry is gone, and Hermione is busy with Gin, and Ron doesn’t know what to do with himself.

It’s a familiar feeling, though, and Gin _had_ just invited everyone to stay and enjoy the buffet, so he makes his way over to the food tables.

After all, he’s worse than useless to the girls just now, and Harry certainly doesn’t need him. He can’t quite wrap his head around that — Harry’s strange ambivalence, the way his face lit up as he read that note and disappeared… Oh well; Hermione will no doubt explain it to him later.


	7. Golden Snitches

**April 2000 — Cachora, Peru**

 

Harry kicks a small rock into the gutter. He mutters to himself, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes firmly on the ground. He doesn’t understand why none of the guides he’s encountered seem willing to take him to the Choquequirao ruins. Sure, they’re supposedly cursed, but… People don’t actually believe it, right? And even if they do, there has to be _someone_ willing to take him.

He spins on his heel, stalking back toward the seedy bar. Someone in that smoke-darkened room is bound to be willing. He’ll just have to flash a lot more gold. He doesn’t like resorting to bribery — that’s more Malfoy’s territory — but he needs to get up there.

He strides through the swinging doors, wincing at the the way they creak and shudder. A rust-colored rain of paint flakes speckle his boots. He has to get himself under control before his magic brings the place down around his ears.

He firms his jaw and strides to the bar. The weedy man behind it peers up at him, beady eyes clouded by age and smudged lenses.

“Yes?” he asks. “What can I get you? Drinks only, mind.” His hands never stop their slow, inevitable motion over the wooden surface of the bar, smearing the stains around with a gray towel that Harry thinks was once probably white.

Harry grinds his teeth, forcing his tone to remain even. “I need a guide.”

The man blinks at him but doesn’t stop wiping the bar. “And I need to be young again.” He waits a moment. “Seems neither of us will get what he wants today.”

Harry scowls. “I can pay,” he says shortly. “Gold.”

The barman stares impassively back at him, but he doesn’t say anything else, just waits.

They stare at one another. Harry sees the beginnings of smug gloating swimming up from the depths of the man’s cloudy eyes. Before it can fully surface, someone speaks up from the silent crowd of men behind them.

“I’ll do it.”

Harry turns slowly, half expecting the voice to have been only in his head.

Facing him is a short, squat man of middling age. His hair is shading toward grey at the temples, and his tanned face is seamed with wrinkles, but his eyes are clear and hard.

“I’ll do it… for 5,000 Sol.”

Harry blinks. It’s an outrageous sum, more than a year’s wages for the average worker in Cachora, and yet… No one else bats an eye. It seems they, at least, consider it a fair price. He sighs. He’s brought that much — barely. It will leave him dangerously strapped for cash for the journey home, but… Well. Knowing Malfoy, he may as well not return without the medallion. They’ll just have to make it up in the sale.

He nods and holds out his hand. His guide ignores it.

“If we go, we go now.”

Harry looks skeptically up at the sun, which hangs decidedly higher in the sky than he would like. “But—“

The man glares at him. “Now, or not at all, outsider.”

Harry nods.

* * *

He regrets that decision almost immediately. He’d hoped they’d take some of the burros tied up outside the bar. Not that he’d been looking forward to riding a burro, exactly, but he _really_ isn’t looking forward to making the climb on foot.

By late afternoon the next day, he’s bruised and beaten, trudging grimly behind his guide as the man winds inexorably up the mountain. The man clearly doesn’t believe in so mundane a thing as a path, and opts instead to veer away from any they come across, slicing through hanging vines and underbrush alike with a wicked machete that he’d whipped out of… well, Harry isn’t sure where it was, but it’s spent the last several hours almost constantly in the man’s hand. It makes Harry’s arm hurt just to watch him.

The jungle closes in around them, a million shades of green and a riot of colorful flowers and birds. The perfumed air is filled with the rhythmic thwacks of the machete, the hooting of howler monkeys, and the constant, ever-present drip of water making its way from the canopy high above.

Harry scratches yet another bug bite, hoping his magical inoculations will be strong enough to beat out whatever parasites and fevers he might otherwise acquire, and wipes beads of sweat from his brow. He hadn’t prepared to spend the night in the forest, and he’s regretting that bitterly now. He slept uneasily, unused to the night noises of the jungle, and not entirely trusting of his reticent guide. He’s also not used to hiking at this altitude, and his lungs and muscles are burning.

He takes another swig from his water-skin, debating whether to call a halt. He doesn’t think his guide would listen. Sighing, he treks on.

He tries to engage his guide in small talk, at first. Though he can hardly find the breath for speech himself, his guide moves implacably forward. But all his efforts are met with grunts and terse replies. After a succession of ‘yep’s, ‘hmmm’s, and ‘no’s, he’s learned the man’s name is Paolo and little else. Eventually, he gives it up as hopeless and focuses on his breathing. It makes walking a bit easier and, for a while, he doesn’t mind the silence.

Just when he is about to try again, Paolo holds up a hand. Harry bites his lip, forcing the words back, and looks around. They’ve reached what once must have been a large clearing, though now it’s only a thinner patch of vegetation. Harry thinks it generally uninteresting and is turning away, assuming this to be a rest break, when Paolo’s machete comes down in three smooth swipes and the vines part like a curtain.

Behind them lie the ruins. Harry stares, dumbfounded. He’d have gone right past, never realizing what he was missing. He sees the gleam of gold winking from amid the moss-covered stones, and steps forward.

Paolo stops him with an arm across his chest.

“You go from here,” he says when Harry turns to him. “I go no further.”

“But—“ Harry starts, but Paolo has already faded into the mist. Harry realizes two things in that moment. First, that the sky has grown noticeably darker than it had been when they’d begun this journey, and a thick- gray mist has sprung up to further blur the landscape, and second, that he is alone.

He turns again, scanning the trees, but there is nothing.

A monkey howls in the distance. A parrot squawks.

Harry shivers.

He turns back to stare at the ruins. It’s folly to start now. It will likely be full dark by the time he’s retrieved the amulet, and he doesn’t think he can find his way back reliably in the daylight, much less the dark.

Then he remembers that he is a Wizard, dammit, and he can just apparate away whenever he likes.

Considerably cheered, he steps forward into the clearing. The air seems almost to thicken around him, resisting him, and as he presses on it suddenly sucks him inward.

Wards.

He hadn’t thought that there would be wards.

He is an idiot.

He stands perfectly still, waiting for whatever defensive magic is still active in this place to repel him. The minutes tick by. One… two… five.

Harry sighs and steps forward, relieved. The defenses must have worn off with age.

His straining ears register the tiny hiss before his conscious mind does, and his muscles react instinctively, dropping him instantly into a sideways roll.

The blow dart quivers in the tree not three feet from him; the crimson-painted tip gleams wetly. Harry gulps. Cinnabar.

So. Not all defenses are gone, then. He’ll have to be careful.

* * *

Malfoy’s informant was right. There’s a second layer of rooms in the temple, hidden from muggles in a layer of wizard space, folded around and set atop the visible rooms. The Medallion is in the fifth room he tries. The first four present him with traps and puzzles — all with deadly consequences. He avoids some, disarms others, and accidentally trips a few. Luckily, those are the easiest to deal with.

The rooms themselves are gorgeous, rife with history and magical artefacts. Harry is nearly tempted by the winking emeralds and sapphires, the softly glowing rubies and diamonds, the piles of shining gold.

He knows better. A quick detection spell confirms it — the rooms and everything in them are laced with cinnabar, mercury, and a handful of other poisons. In this temple, greed leads irrevocably to death. And Harry has a mission.

Get in, get the medallion, get out. He repeats this in his head, a mantra to keep him from temptation. _Get in, get the medallion, get out._

Who knows what curses lie on those riches, even if he dared to risk the poisons? He’s here for one thing, and one thing only. And then…

In the fifth room, the medallion gleams as if it has just been polished, a burnished gold circle roughly the size of Harry’s palm, emblazoned with a rising sun.

It hangs around the neck of a desiccated body, hair still attached to its gray, papery flesh.

A mummy.

A guardian.

Harry belatedly raises his wand. He casts a quick _revelio,_ just to be sure, but…

Nothing happens. He’s cut off from his magic. It’s still there, potent as ever, but completely out of reach — as if an invisible veil has fallen between it and him.

He gulps.

He waves his wand again, in a quick succession of patterns, casting curse detection and disarming spells one after the other.

Or, he tries to cast. The wand remains limp and lifeless in his fingers.

Right. The muggle way, then, and hope like hell that it’s not coated with poison like everything else.

He’d cast the same detection spells on this room from the passageway, though. Nothing had shown up. He’ll just have to trust to luck, he thinks, wishing belatedly for the dose of felix felicis waiting in his cupboard back at home. He’s saving it for when he _really_ needs it. He’s beginning to think that time is now.

He slips the wand into his back pocket, wipes his sweaty palms on the thighs of his jeans.

He can do this.

It’s just a mummy.

No, don’t think of that. Just a— a thing, now. Not alive. Not anything to worry about.

He steps forward quickly and slips the chain over the mummy’s head.

A papery hand reaches up and latches around his wrist, and Harry’s skin grows cold.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and he’s never meant it more.

The hand tightens, bony fingers closing around his arm and squeezing tight.

Harry wants to scream.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he turns his head. He locks eyes with the sunken eye-sockets and desiccated eyes of the thing holding him.

Then he wrenches his arm sideways and back, rolling away from the thing sitting on its golden throne.

He takes the medallion with him.

He takes the arm with him, too. It breaks off cleanly from the body, tearing with a sickening crunch of bone, and he scrabbles at it. After a few seconds, the fingers relax, and he hurls the thing away from him.

He looks down, eyes wild.

He has the medallion.

He has to get out of here.

He lurches to his feet and out the door, down the corridors, running blind. By some miracle, he avoids the traps, and then he’s out, out into the fading afternoon light and he’s never been so happy to see the weak rays of sunlight in his life.

He looks down at the medallion in his hand. “How am I going to get you out of here?” he wonders as the rush of adrenaline fades, leaving him cold. He can’t apparate, not with the medallion. He’ll have to walk. But which way is the way out? His eyes light upon the hacks and cuts made by Paolo’s machete, and he smiles.

He stumbles along the path of broken branches, squinting into the darkening gloom and mist around him and wishing he’d paid more attention to their route. He’d assumed he’d have a guide on the way out, too. A foolish notion, now that he thinks of it, but there’s no help for it now.

He pats the pocket where he’s stowed the medallion. Still there. Good.

A blade whistles through the air, scant inches from his cheek, and he swerves abruptly to the left

* * *

The vipers are in the middle of what seems to be a family argument.

Harry groans. _Of course,_ he would end up as the mediator to a family of hissing vipers, all while being chased by Zabini’s goons. What else did he expect? He frowns, trying to follow the conversation for a moment, fifteen different grievances and sides being argued at once.

It’s really too bad he can’t use magic, he thinks, as he continues to listen with half an ear to the drama playing out before him. It would be so much easier to take care of Bulstrode and Goyle if he could.

Of course, they can’t use magic either — which they obviously know. He’s been set up.

The knowledge hits him like ice water to the face.

He’s been set up. That bastard Paolo set him up.

He thinks of the pocketful of gold he’d given the man, the pocketful he’s no doubt wheedled out of Zabini’s goons.

It’s a small consolation, to know he probably won’t live to enjoy it.

* * *

The snakes are hissing at him, demanding his attention.

He apologizes, tongue slipping smoothly around the hissing sounds of parseltongue, and turns his attention back to their disagreement.

A malicious chuckle startles him, just as he’s putting the final touches on a solution that works for everyone.

“Sitting in the dirt, Potter? My, my. That’s a new low, even for you.”

“Shut it, Bulstrode,” he returns angrily. He stands slowly, dusting off the knees of his trousers and glaring at her. Goyle appears suddenly beside her, swinging a heavy club against his meaty palm. Harry winces as it thwacks dully against the skin.

Bulstrode grins triumphantly, taking advantage of his distraction, and raises her wicked blade.

He narrows his eyes and hisses _“These are the ones I told you about. I will collect my payment now.”_

The snake closest to him, the matriarch of the colony, bobs her head regally. “ _Agreed_.”

Then, they attack, writhing forward in a hissing mass, surging toward Bulstrode and Goyle’s feet.

With an earsplitting shriek, she turns and runs, tossing her blade to the dirt and yanking a protesting Goyle with her. The moment they cross the magic dampening field, they spin away in a whirl of apparition.

Harry stares down at the dull metal, mystified, and then winces as he watches the blood well up from the deep gash on his thigh.

_Episkey_ , he thinks, then, _right. No magic. Um._ He’s feeling woozy, and this is so not good.

He grips his wand tightly, pressing his left hand to the wound to try and stem the flow of blood, and uses every ounce of magical strength and stubbornness within him to send out a Patronus, shoving it past the magical barrier put up by the medallion.

He doesn’t have the strength to control or direct it at all, so it’s really just a magical S.O.S. broadcast on all channels — the equivalent of an amplified shout of “help!”


	8. Weasleys

It’s pure luck that Bill Weasley is in the area on Cursebreaker business when he feels the magical cry, and he arrives by Harry’s side to find him passed out and bleeding profusely. He instinctively reaches for his wand to stop the bleeding when he feels it. The faint thrumming in his blood that tells him something very Dark indeed is near, the instinctive urge to bolt. He usually has to be close enough to touch before the reaction is this strong — whatever this is, it’s perhaps the Darkest thing he’s ever encountered.

He spots it then — the faint circular outline in Harry’s favorite pocket. He tries to levitate it out, mindful of contact poisons, but his magic fizzles when he tries. His brows creep toward his hairline. Interesting.

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and then reaches forward and edges it out to take a look. His breath catches in his throat as the gleaming gold medallion slides out into his hand. 

He can feel the Darkness now — radiating off it in waves that send his pulse skyrocketing. What on earth is Harry doing with something like  _ this _ ? He whistles softly and slips the thing back into Harry’s pocket. He’ll ask him about it later — right now he needs to make sure Harry will be around later at all.

He steps back until he can feel the Darkness fading and casts a few cursory diagnostic spells over the medallion and Harry together, furrowing his brow as he concentrates and nodding as the results shimmer in the air. As he’d expected. He slices his wand through a complex pattern, then another, ritual words falling from his lips like stones into a pool. He can feel the ripples spreading out from them, lapping gently against the medallion and sticking, coating and muffling it.

He squares his shoulders as he prepares the healing charms in his mind. He’ll only have one shot at this — he has to get it exactly right.

He steps forward, closes his eyes, centers himself, and casts.

The edges of the gash knit themselves together and he gets in a quick _enervate_ before the spells ricochet back at him with little time to brace and shield for the kickback. He manages it, barely, but it still leaves him sweating and dizzy.

For a long moment, nothing happens, and then Harry sits up with a gasp.

“Don’t do magic!” he rasps frantically, and Bill smiles.

“I gathered.”

Harry wobbles and Bill catches him before he can fall back to the ground.

“Easy,” he says softly. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. I’ve cobbled you back together for now, but I don’t have any blood replenishing potions on me at the moment, so you’ll be weak for a while yet.”

Harry nods faintly, barely moving his head.

“The medallion?”

Bill gives him a tight-lipped smile. “It’s safe. I quieted it while I patched you up, but I won’t be able to fool it again, so try and stay out of trouble for the time being, yeah?”

“Bill,” Harry says seriously, “when have I ever wanted anything else?”

“I should just leave you here,” he says, exasperated.

Harry shakes his head. “No. Please. I’ll be good.”

“Hmm.” Bill studies him for a moment, then exclaims, “Harry! What in Merlin’s name are you doing with something that Dark anyway?”

Harry closes his eyes. “I have no idea. None.”

He opens them again, as Bill shoots him a commiserating smile. “Malfoy?”

“Malfoy,” Harry agrees wryly.

“I’m not sure you know what you’ve gone and gotten yourself into with him,” Bill says, still studying him. “But I suppose if you’re happy, then that’s all right. I think it’s safe to move, now. Rather, I think it’s safest to move now, even if not strictly ‘safe,’ because we still have to get you back to civilization. I don’t suppose you know the way?”

Harry shakes his head. “My guide abandoned me. I was following the trail of cuts he made on our way in, but I seem to have got turned around while those goons were chasing me.”

Bill sighs. “Best get going, then. It will be dark soon enough, and I’d like to get as far as we can from here before the light fails.”

Harry nods, and Bill helps him to his feet.

“Harry,” he says slowly, “I don’t know if you’d be interested, but I have a shielded pouch we use to contain things we’re trying to break really Dark curses on. It might dampen the medallion a bit. It’s not strong enough to shield it completely, but—“

Harry nods quickly. Once the medallion is sealed into the bag, Harry drops it back into his pocket and sighs with relief. “Thank fuck. It was worse than wearing the Horcrux.”


	9. Golden Snitches

**April 2000 — Cachora, Peru**

 

It takes them a few days to make it back to Cachora, where Bill books them a room at the Hospedaje Sayhuite and insists Harry stay there and recuperate. He pops back to his office to grab a few things and square things with his boss, and, true to his word, is back within the hour. Harry breathes a sigh of relief when he glimpses the familiar red hair out his window.

“That was fast,” he remarks as Bill walks in. “What did you tell her?”

“Hmm? Oh. Ariana. Well,” he grins, “essentially I just called in sick. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

Harry smirks at him. “Smooth. So, did you get them?”

Bill holds up two large duffle bags in answer. He rummages through one for a moment and then hands Harry a much larger and stronger version of the bag the medallion rests in and tells him to put both medallion and bag into the new one. That accomplished, he casts a few more diagnostic spells and then quickly wards and locks the room.

“Now,” he says, turning back to Harry with a grin, “the fun begins.”

* * *

Five hours later, they both slump exhausted against opposite walls, coated in sweat and no small amount of blood. The medallion lies on the floor between them, at the center of a series of concentric rings. Nearly all the rings have been broken; only the central ring, representing the deepest curse, is left. Harry smiles faintly at Bill. “Ready?”

Bill salutes him with his wand. “Ready.”

They cast together, twin beams of white light arcing toward the circle. It flares briefly white-hot and then fades.

Harry raises an eyebrow at Bill. “Done?”

Bill nods, letting his head fall back against the wall with a quiet thunk. “Done. You can break the circle now.”

Harry does, holding his breath as he does so. The medallion winks up at him innocently. They work their way systematically through their entire combined repertoire of diagnostic spells; all come back clean. Harry wipes a tired hand across his brow, running his fingers through his dust-grimed hair.

“Fabulous,” he says, yawning widely. “I need a nap.”

“Best put away Malfoy’s bauble first,” Bill says, laughing. “Would hate to see it walk away after we put all that effort into it.”

Harry slips it back into his pocket, offering the bags back to Bill.

He shakes his head. “I think you need them more than I do. I’ve a spare set back at the office, anyway, and this’ll give me an excuse to requisition a new one.” He pulls an exaggeratedly mournful face. “Alas, this one met a tragic end on my travels.”

“Thanks.” Harry yawns again, wincing as his jaw cracks. “Ow. I’m for bed, then.”

Bill nods. “We’ll need to arrange muggle transport back to London, you realize? I think we’ve weakened the magical dampening field, but I don’t trust this thing in the international floo.”

Harry sighs. “Yeah. Hope you’ve a few more days to be ‘sick.’”

Bill chuckles. “I’m sure I can manage.” He rummages in his bag for his pajamas and heads toward the shower, then turns back. “Hey, Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“You won’t get in trouble, will you? With Malfoy, I mean. For removing the curses?”

Harry shrugs. “I’ll handle him. I know you couldn’t in good conscience let something that Dark loose in the world, and I couldn’t either. I don’t think it will be a problem.”

* * *

**May 2000 — London, England**

 

“Of course, it took more than a week to get back,” Harry finishes, lips twisting in disgust. “Muggles and their bloody inefficient travel systems.”

He leans back in his chair and takes a sip of wine, keeping his face carefully composed as he eyes Malfoy with sharp eyes. He’s still not sure what Malfoy will think of the whole endeavor.

Malfoy opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, closes it, and finally takes an overlarge gulp of his wine and nearly chokes. Once he stops gasping, he pulls a wry face. “You made the best choice possible under the circumstances,” he says, mouth twisting like he’s sucked on a lemon. Then his face hardens. “But I’ll be accompanying you on your treasure-hunting jaunts from now on, and that’s not negotiable. _Honestly_ , Potter. What were you thinking? Going _alone_ into the bloody Amazon in search of an incredibly Dark artefact with Blaise and his goons after you? _Salazar_. You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

“But—“

Malfoy forges on, ignoring him. “Where were Weasley and Granger, Hmm? Don’t you usually take them on your adventures?”

“Not anymore,” Harry says, amused. “Not since school, Malfoy. You know that.”

“Well, yes. Fine. But, surely there’s someone…” His voice trails off as he frowns. “Ha!” he exclaims triumphantly a moment later, “What about that Fiancée of yours, hmm?”

“Ginny isn’t—“

“If you’re about to tell me that she’s too delicate for such things, I’ve a few Bat-Bogey hexes in my past that say otherwise.

Harry grins fondly, remembering. “Still,” he says firmly, “she’s not a part of this. Anyway,” he adds, waving a hand as if to wave the matter aside, “it’s not like she’d be interested.”

“Hmm. Yes, well. Looks like you’re stuck with me then, Potter.”

Harry grins, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Looking forward to it, Malfoy.”

Malfoy nods. “Good. You clearly need someone to watch your back and provide a modicum of common sense. The guide, Potter? Really? That’s a classic double-cross. Blaise could do that when he was still in diapers. Why didn’t you see through it?”

Harry shrugs. “That’s your department, Malfoy. By the way, I’ve been wondering: Why the hell did Millicent run away? By all rights, I should be dead right now.”

“Ah, well,” Malfoy says sheepishly, “she’s afraid of snakes, you see. Terrified of them, actually. She was nearly impossible to be around after word of the basilisk got out second year.”

Harry stares at him. “And you didn’t think that would maybe be useful? Since I’m a _parselmouth_?”

He shrugs. “Honestly, I didn’t think of it. Millie didn’t talk about it much — a Slytherin afraid of snakes? — And, anyway, it’s not like you go around talking to the things all the time. I’d forgotten you still could, actually.”


	10. Silver Stars

Ginny wakes in the early morning to a series of loud thumps, muffled swearing, and a spectacular crash. She darts into the living room, wand raised and dressing gown clutched tight to her chest, to find—

Harry, sprawled out on the floor, wincing and scowling as he rubs his knee, where a dark bruise blooms.

She sighs and lowers her wand, turning back to the warmth of her bed.

“Where the devil did _that_ come from?” Harry exclaims sulkily behind her.

She turns back to scan the room in surprise. Nothing seems out of place.

“Where did what come from?”

He jabs a finger at the coffee table. “That… menace. Who in their right mind would put a table _there_?”

She frowns, wondering absently if he’d hit his head when he fell. “Harry,” she says, exasperated, as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and strives for patience, “ _you_ put that table there when you bought it. Remember? It’s been there six months, at least.”

His mouth falls open, then closes with a startled click. “I… I haven’t been gone six _months_ , surely?”

She purses her lips, considering. “No-o, but you’ve not stayed for more than a day in at least that long. I’m not surprised you didn’t remember the coffee table was there. Are you coming to bed, or shall I ask Breezy to make breakfast?”

He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding meeting her gaze. “I, uh, actually only have a minute. I just stopped by to get something out of my desk.”

“All right, well, I trust you know where _that_ is. I’m going back to bed.” She rubs her eyes, yawning widely.

“Oh, and Harry—“

She peers back around the doorframe just in time to see him apparate away.

She sighs. She can’t help it. “Say hello to Malfoy for me,” she mutters, then flops back into her too-large bed.

_I wonder if Astoria has any plans today…_ she thinks blearily, as her eyes drift closed and exhaustion rushes in to replace the fading adrenaline.

* * *

Ginny stares down the length of the empty table, waiting for Harry.

After the war, Harry had spoken at Malfoy and his parents’ trials. He’d refused to tell her what he’d said, and the whole thing had been kept disgustingly confidential, but whatever it was was enough to tip the scales in the Malfoys’ favor. Oh, they hadn’t gotten off _completely_ , of course — they’d been forced to spend nearly all of the vast Malfoy fortune on reparations and rebuilding. And they’d done so with a surprising lack of complaint — with grace, even. They’d give up the Manor too, deeding it to the War Memorial Foundation, to be used as a museum of Wizarding History, leading up to the war.

Malfoy’d told them later that it wasn’t a hardship — none of them had wanted to live in the manor, after Voldemort’s occupation. Still, even Ron had been impressed at their willingness to move forward. She supposes that’s what had led, indirectly, to Harry and Malfoy’s odd partnership.

Malfoy had turned his persuasive powers, clever brain, and shrewd business acumen to rebuilding the Malfoy fortune by selling off his family’s antiques. Harry had been directed to him when he decided to sell off the more… questionable things he’d found in Number 12 Grimmauld Place and the Black and Potter vaults, and, somehow, a simple business transaction had blossomed into a strange sort of friendship and then a partnership.

It suits them, she thinks wistfully, this life of madcap dashing about, chasing hints of hidden treasure and Dark artefacts. She just wishes, sometimes, that Harry would look up and really _see_ her, instead of memories of the girl he thought he knew in school. Wishes that his eyes weren’t always flitting away from her, seeking the glitter of golden wings. It hasn’t escaped her notice — though she rather thinks it has his — that he and Malfoy are _still_ dancing around one another, chasing a hint of gold.

She remembers the puzzled frown that had creased Harry’s forehead when he’d told them all of his new business partner, at one of her mother’s dinners.

“But,” Ron had spluttered, face going blotchy and eyes wide, “you hate him!”

Harry had shrugged. “Well, yeah. But… he’s Malfoy.”

As if that explained it. And, perhaps to him, it did.

She frowns around the empty room, at the plates of uneaten lasagna on the table, cold, now, and thoroughly unappetizing.

She thinks of calling Breezy, and then vanishes the lot with a tired sigh, wondering if Astoria feels like company. Perhaps if she brought a bottle of wine… She doesn’t think she can stomach another long evening alone, just now.

* * *

She’s so _sick_ of this empty house. Ginny isn’t used to having so much space to fill, doesn’t really feel up to the task of filling it. She’s always been surrounded by people; as the youngest of seven children, she’s never truly been alone.

Now that she has, she finds it’s not an experience she cares to repeat. And yet, here she is, facing an unending string of solitude, broken only by fleeting appearances of Harry.

Not for the first time, she looks into their future together and is not sure she likes what she sees.

She grabs a handful of floo powder and tosses it into the fire before she can change her mind. She needs to get out of this house or she’ll go mad.

For a long moment, there’s no answer, and her swift-beating heart sinks through the floor. Then Astoria’s head appears in the flames.

“Yes, hello? Oh, Ginny, dear, it’s you. How are you?”

She tries to speak, but the words die in her throat as the panic and loneliness catch up to her, and no sound passes her lips. A hot tear splashes to the mantle beside her, then another, as she stares, horrified and helpless to stop them.

“Oh, you poor dear,” Astoria says gently. “Here — come here. That’s it.”

Ginny allows herself to be coaxed into the flames, stumbling into the Malfoy’s comfortable sitting room and sagging into Astoria’s waiting arms.

“S-sorry,” she sniffles, scrubbing the edge of her sleeve across her face. “I don’t know what came over me. I just felt so…”

“Alone?” Astoria asks gently, patting her back and then leading her to a sofa. “I know. Me too.”

They share a sad, knowing smile.

“But, you’re here now,” she says, brightening, “and you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I’m not fond of being alone, either. Tea?”

Ginny nods gratefully.

Astoria snaps her fingers and calls “Elly!”

A petite house-elf appears, looking… well, prim is the word that springs to mind. Ginny eyes her severe black dress, starched apron, and frilly cap and smiles.

“A free elf?”

“Yes, miss,” Elly says, as she pops back in with the tea. “I is a free elf, and I is very grateful to Miss Granger for this opportunity. I is saving my wages, you see. Mistress Tori treats Elly very well indeed, and I will reach my goal even before I had hoped.”

Ginny relaxes into the couch, accepting the cup of tea Elly offers her. “Thank you,” she says, and then, “What are you saving for, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Elly draws herself up proudly. “I is saving up to go to school, miss.”

Astoria smiles fondly as she accepts her own cup, then dunks a biscuit into it. “Elly is very smart — we’re happy to help her save for her goal. And we’re very grateful for her help while she works toward it.”

“Thank you, Mistress Tori.” She smiles. “Is there anything else I can bring you?”

“No thank you, Elly. But maybe set another place at dinner?”

She looks questioningly at Ginny, who nods. “Thank you. That would be lovely.”

Elly nods and disapparates, and Ginny turns to Astoria, amusement lighting her eyes.

“Tori?”

Astoria grins. “Ah. Childhood nickname. I prefer it, when not in proper company, and Draco doesn’t mind. His parents humor me”

She leans forward conspiratorially. “I hate my name, you see. Can you imagine a more stuck-up, pureblood name than _Astoria_?”

Ginny snorts. “Try ‘Ginevra.’”

Astoria blinks. “I suppose you can imagine it, at that. That’s why everyone calls you Ginny?”

“Yeah. Though I really prefer Gin. It feels just a touch naughty.” They grin at one another.

“Well, I’ll call you Gin if you call me Tori?”

“Deal.” She looks down at her hands. “Shake on it?”

Astoria shrugs. “You’re the one with brothers. Don’t we have to like, spit on our hands first or something?”

Ginny laughs, startled. “I am _not_ spitting on my hand and then shaking yours! That’s disgusting.”

“Ah well. I suppose a standard handshake will have to do.” Astoria’s lips quirk and Ginny feels some of the weight on her chest lift.


	11. Golden Snitches

**June 2001 — Cairo, Egypt**

“Potter!”

Harry looks up from his customary stumble out of the unfamiliar fireplace into piercing gray eyes. He doesn’t think he could ever forget Malfoy’s eyes. They’re like storm-clouds over wind-whipped seas — especially when he’s annoyed. Harry does love to annoy him.

He’s flooed directly there from the last international Portkey station — Abu Dhabi, maybe? He can’t quite recall — with only a scribbled address and Malfoy’s room number to guide him. He doesn’t even know where there is yet. It’s hot, though, and dry, so he’s guessing they’re near a desert.

He breaks the intense stare to glance around, savoring the opulence that he’s learned is customary to any rooms Malfoy chooses. He has good taste, the prat.

When he’s judged the pause long enough to annoy Malfoy but not so long he’ll become difficult, Harry looks up.

“Malfoy. Nice rooms.”

“Thank you, Potter. I’m so glad my choice of rooms pleases you.” He rolls his eyes. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, get over here and have a look at this.”

Harry frowns. They usually snipe at one another for quite a bit longer before getting down to business. Then he catches the barely-restrained excitement edging Malfoy’s words and his eyes widen. “You found it!”

He grins the razor-sharp smile of a predator, all teeth and smugness. “Yes. Well, near enough. Look!”

Harry leans over his shoulder, feeling the excitement rolling off him in waves as he gestures at the map spread out on the table.

“Giza,” he breathes reverently, “I knew it!”

* * *

**June 2001 — Cairo, Egypt**

Potter’s warm breath wafts across Draco’s cheek, stirring the hairs at the nape of his neck, and he feels his breath hitch. He frowns, distracted from the map spread out below them. Something is niggling at the edges of his memory, something to do with sapphires and… He loses his train of thought.

He can feel Potter’s warmth along his back — the man is like a furnace, which is well and good in dreary old England, but a bit much in the dry desert heat. Which doesn’t really explain why he’s leaning _toward_ Potter’s body, instead of away from it, as he’d meant to, but then Potter jabs excitedly at the map with a thick, blunt-nailed finger and he forgets everything but the thrill of the chase that fizzes and bubbles in his veins.

He lays his own hand, pale, long-fingered and delicate, over Potter’s larger, darker one and guides their joined fingers in a circle, tracing out the area he’s narrowed it down to today. Potter flashes a blinding grin at him and pulls free, turning away to summon a servant and order food.

He’s always hungry, is Potter, always quick to stuff his face with the local cuisine — not that Draco is that different, really. He can feel it too, that burning hunger that gnaws at both of them — has since the fiendfyre, he thinks, or maybe even before. Maybe they’ve always been hungry; Draco can just hide it better. But then, he spent his childhood learning to hide it. Malfoys don’t feel that yearning hunger — and if they do, they certainly don’t show it. But with Potter around, he has no need to hide it, and so he lets some of the masks he still wears drop.

The emerald cufflinks on Potter’s sleeves catch a ray from the setting sun as he turns, flaring brilliantly. Draco feels a warm glow suffuse his stomach, reminding him that he’s hungry; always hungry. He carefully rolls the map and hurries after Potter. He can’t be trusted with food, the cretin; he likes everything. Draco will have to make sure he orders a worthy celebration dinner. Perhaps they’ll skip the wine, though. They’ll be up before dawn, and will need to have their wits about them.

He thinks he glimpsed Zabini, earlier, in the lobby.

Fucking Zabini.

Potter waves him over, dragging him from his thoughts. Never mind. There will be plenty of time to curse Zabini later. They have a morning astride camels in the blazing sun ahead of them, after all.

He sighs. Perhaps a glass of wine wouldn’t be amiss after all.

* * *

Potter waves his hand airily, the emeralds at his wrists flashing nearly as brightly as his eyes. He’s loosened his tie; his jacket is draped over the back of his chair. He lounges on the floor, now, on a tasseled cushion, gesturing expansively with his wineglass, nearly sloshing the purple liquid over the rim. It would serve him right, really. Get wine stains on those fancy clothes. He doesn’t look right in those clothes. It’s better, now that he’s relaxed a bit; he looks more real.

Draco smiles at him, attempting to hide it behind his own glass, once he realizes what he’s doing. Potter grins back, and Draco gives up another mask. That grin is intoxicating. It lights up his boyish, roguishly handsome face, giving him a strangely knowing air. Draco’s stomach flips uneasily and he sets aside his wineglass, careful not to spill it. He doesn’t think he’s had that much, but… Potter seems somehow _more_ tonight. Draco should probably try to keep his wits about him. It wouldn’t do to drop _all_ his masks.

* * *

**June 2001 — Cairo, Egypt**

Harry watches Malfoy hiding a smile behind his wineglass and grins. He can’t help it. Malfoy’s eyes dance with mirth and challenge, and he drops one shoulder in an elegant shrug. His eyes darken for a moment, and he sets his wineglass deliberately aside, rising with a liquid feline grace to offer Harry a hand.

“Coming, Potter? We’ve a long day of camel-riding ahead of us.”

He stares at Malfoy’s hand, letting the words slide off without registering. For a moment there’s a second Malfoy superimposed over this one, a bratty eleven-year-old with his hand held out. To Harry.

He remembers staring at that hand, disdaining it, and his stomach heaves strangely at the thought.

He shakes the vision away, shuddering, and clasps Malfoy’s hand. It’s cool and lithe, and it pulls him easily to his feet. Harry feels the coiled strength in him, along with the whisper of his magical strength, and it’s more intoxicating than the wine.

Malfoy’s words catch up to him then, as he watches him walk away, his slender figure gliding effortlessly across the polished wooden floor.

“Wait — camels?”

He scrambles to catch up, feeling suddenly wrong-footed and clumsy. It must be the wine, he thinks fuzzily. He didn’t have that much, but…

Then Malfoy’s tossing a bundle of clothes at him, imperiously pointing him toward the bath and flicking down the sheets on a luxurious-looking bed as he folds languidly onto its twin, and the world shivers back into its familiar lines.

Harry takes longer than normal getting ready for bed just to annoy him, poking into the cupboards and sniffing all the fancy bottles of lotion and hair potion and who-knows-what that line the counter. When he can’t drag it out any longer he emerges, blinking, into a darkened room lit only with the soft glow of a lamp beside his bed. The curtains around Malfoy’s bed are drawn tight — the prat’s gone to bed without him.

Miffed, he slumps into bed and turns off the light, and not even the slide of slick, expensive sheets against his skin can restore his mood. But he can’t keep up the petulant sulk for long, and as the wine and the dizzying whirl of the day’s international Portkey travel catch up to him, he sinks into slumber.

* * *

**June 2001 — Somewhere in the Desert, Egypt**

Draco hates camels.

He’d forgotten that, since their last desert expedition. It’s been three years, after all — just long enough to add glamor to the romantic ideals and dull the lackluster memories of just what it’s like to actually ride a camel.

It’s hot. Itchy. Bumpy.

His camel is a particularly foul-tempered beast, and he’d barely escaped being bitten that morning whilst attempting to mount the bloody thing.

“Remind me again why we’re riding camels?” Potter asks petulantly.

Potter draws even with him, controlling his mount easily. Draco scowls at the obviously more placid beast, then down at his own. He’s sure he sees an evil glint in the beast’s eye, and he jerks the reins just a little harder than strictly necessary. He won’t be beaten by a godforsaken camel.

“Because, Potter,” he says, one eye still on his mount, in case the irksome beast decides to bolt, “the desert around here is riddled with anti-apparition wards and pockets of wild magic left over from the last mage war. I’d like to arrive at our destination in one piece. Hence, camels.”

Potter sighs. “Right. OK.” Then he frowns. “What’s a mage war?”

“Honestly, Potter, don’t you remember anything from History of Magic?” Draco knows he sounds like Granger, but he can’t help it. Potter should know this.

He rolls his eyes. “I know. I’m an idiot. Can we skip to the part where you tell me what it is?”

It’s far too hot to argue, much as he’d like to, so Draco decides to take the easy way out this time.

“Wizards in Egypt called themselves mages, back when they built the pyramids. There was a war. You know what it’s like — you’ve been in one, after all. Anyway, this one was worse. The mages practiced magic differently, relying more on elemental magic and rituals than spells, and so the sites of some of the worst battles have rather… unpredictable effects. They don’t really bother anyone out in the desert, but the combination of unpredictable elements and the wards left on the pyramids makes apparition deadly. You’d most likely splinch yourself if you tried it — so, don’t.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Malfoy.”

“I know that look in your eye. You were about to try it, just to prove me wrong. I don’t fancy explaining to the Weasleys that you splinched yourself, so just… don’t.”

“Awww, Malfoy. Didn’t know you cared.”

“I don’t. Shut up.”

They ride in silence for several blessed minutes, and Draco finds himself studying Potter. He doesn’t mean to, exactly, except that everywhere else he looks there’s only sand stretching to the horizon and Potter’s right there.

He purses his lips, squinting against the glaring sun. As Draco watches, a drop of sweat trickles from beneath the linen veil that shrouds Potter’s form and hides his disgustingly shaggy hair.

He watches, fascinated, as it traces a slow path across Potter’s dust-grimed cheeks, turning away only when green eyes swing back toward him.

“D’you s’pose there’s water over there?”

He points off to their right, and Draco squints. As he watches, the air seems to shimmer, and he thinks he catches a glimpse of trees. The lure of shade and water is strong, but he knows better than to chase it.

He sighs, turning back to Potter, exasperated. “That’s a mirage. We’d be chasing it for days. Anyway, that’s the wrong way — we want to bear left now.”

Potter studies the map Draco passes him for a moment, then nods. “Right.”

They lapse into a companionable silence once more, lulled into half-drowses by the sun beating mercilessly down on them and the unchanging landscape. Their camels plod on, relentless.

 


	12. Silver Stars

“Harry.”

Ginny sets down her quill, shoves the papers back into their folder, and frowns. “Harry?”

The empty room mocks her — he was just right there. Wasn’t he?

She’s on her way to the door, thinking to call Breezy to find out if she’s seen him when she catches a flash of white-blond hair out the open window. Of course.

She steps out into the garden, wrapping her scarf tighter around her neck to ward off the evening chill.

“Harry!”

“Yeah, Gin?”

He doesn’t turn away from his companion.

Even if she hadn’t seen his hair through the window, she would know him anywhere. _Malfoy_.

He leans against a small apple tree, looking infuriatingly attractive, as always. He laughs, suddenly, at something Harry said, touches his shoulder, and Ginny shivers and rubs her arms. She wishes she’d thought to wear her heavier cloak.

“Harry!” She tries again. He flaps his hand absently behind him, and she rolls her eyes. “We’re late for dinner,” she says, stalking toward him. “Harry, if we’re late again…”

Bad things happen when one is late for dinner at the Burrow. At home, she thinks wistfully, even though she’s not lived there in years. She lives with Harry, now. Theoretically.

Really she just lives with the ghost of his presence and a lot of empty rooms. She shivers again.

She doesn’t think anyone else has ever been late to dinner at the Burrow. And she’s about to be. Again.

Harry doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at her.

She feels her legendary fiery temper flare, tries to tamp it down. She taps her foot impatiently, her fingers inching toward her wand, itching to cast a Bat-Bogey hex or two. She’s always liked that one.

Several minutes later, Harry still hasn’t moved, and she gives up.

“Fine,” she mutters, stalking forward. “I’m not risking another lecture, so…”

She reaches out, snags Harry’s elbow, and whisks him into a side-along apparition.

“Of _bloody_ course,” she huffs when they appear in the Burrow’s kitchen — all _three_ of them.

Harry, being Harry, must have simply tugged Malfoy along, never mind that he could easily have splinched them all.

Ron hurries up to steady her as she stumbles, thrown off-balance by the added weight as they land.

Malfoy, of course, lands smoothly, continuing his conversation as if he didn’t even notice the world shifting around him.

Harry stumbles — Harry _always_ stumbles out of any sort of magical transport — but he just steadies himself on Malfoy’s outstretched arm.

Ginny wonders bitterly how many times they’ve performed _that_ little maneuver, that it’s so second nature.

Harry and Malfoy wander off toward the porch, still deep in discussion.

“Gin,” Ron mutters into her ear, after closing his gaping jaw with a snap, “what’s Malfoy doing here?”

She rolls her eyes as she shakes herself loose from his grip. “Don’t ask,” she replies, heading in search of George and his hip flask. She needs something stronger than wine to get through tonight.

* * *

Hermione giggles as Ron leans over to whisper in her ear then licks her cheek and snags her pickle as she swats at him. She retaliates by swiping his tomatoes, kicking him under the table. Ginny sighs, leaning on her hand and swirling her fork idly through the mashed potatoes. They’re such goofballs, her brother and his girlfriend, but she loves them. They seem to shine brighter tonight; their light-hearted banter and ease together twist something in her chest and she shivers. She’d known they’d be like this, even back at school, but she’d always hoped…

She glances over at Harry and nearly drops her fork, face heating as she fumbles it, hoping no one noticed. But Harry…

Harry is deep in discussion with Malfoy, still. They’ve not stopped talking since their precipitous arrival, and they don’t look likely to stop anytime soon. That isn’t what draws her attention now; she’s almost used to that. But this…

Malfoy snags the fruit salad before Harry can pass it on, scooping out generous helpings for each of them. Ginny is about to say something — Harry _never_ eats fruit salad, and even her mother accepts it now — but Malfoy isn’t finished. He picks through his helping, scooping out the chunks of pineapple and depositing them on Harry’s plate. Harry, meanwhile, is poking through his and depositing the raisins on Malfoy’s plate one by one. He’s frowning, tongue poking out of his mouth as he concentrates, and when Malfoy notices he laughs. He pulls his wand, mutters something, and summons every raisin and walnut from Harry’s plate.

Harry looks flabbergasted, and then delighted, and then annoyed, the expressions flickering across his face almost too fast to register, and then he retaliates by summoning Malfoy’s olives. Only he must put too much power into it, as he’s prone to when he’s annoyed, and suddenly every olive on the table is flying toward him. He stares, eyes wide, as olives pelt him from all directions, and Malfoy throws a shield charm around them and then collapses onto Harry’s shoulder, overcome with hysterical laughter. They neither of them notice the way everyone else is staring at them; they’re far too busy laughing and teasing one another. And… flirting.

Ginny’s heart twists again, and the smile falls from her face. Harry doesn’t flirt with her, she realizes. Does he? Surely sometimes… She can’t think of a single time, casting frantically back through the years, and she wonders how she’d never noticed. She’s reminded of their last date, when he’d ordered Malfoy’s favorite dish without thinking, without showing any sign that he knew hers. How he’s sat here at this table countless times, passing on the fruit salad or pushing it around his plate. All because he doesn’t like raisins or walnuts. And she never noticed.

He doesn’t know her like he knows Malfoy. And she doesn’t know him.


	13. Golden Snitches

**June 2001 — Giza Pyramids, Egypt**

 

“These are fantastic!" Harry exclaims. "And they built these by hand?”

Malfoy doesn’t look up from his staring contest with his camel. “For the most part,” he says absently. “There were wizards back then, too, you know. The mages we were talking about earlier. They mixed with muggles more back then and so naturally helped with some of the construction.”

He gives the rope holding his camel one last tug, then strides forward. “Stop gawking, Potter. We can take a tour later. Right now we want the seventh pyramid.” He waves his hand vaguely to the right of the pyramid Harry’s been staring at and completely ignores the informational signs, hopping over the barrier and heading around the side of one of the smaller pyramids.

Harry rubs the back of his neck. “Er, Malfoy,” he says hesitantly.

“What, Potter?” Malfoy turns and regards Harry with annoyance.

“Well, it’s just that…” Harry rubs the back of his neck again, unsure how to phrase it.

“There’s only six pyramids, Malfoy,” he says finally, settling on blunt truth.

Malfoy looks up at the pyramids, startled, and then sniggers. “These are the _muggle_ pyramids, Potter. We’re after the _wizarding_ entrance.”

“Er, there’s a difference?” Harry studies the six pyramids again doubtfully.

“Just come on,” Malfoy says. “Obviously, they wouldn’t want muggles finding it. Remember that temple in Peru? Same thing. There’s the muggle section,” he taps one of the blocks on the side of the pyramid, waves his wand in a complicated squiggle, muttering something under his breath, and then grins as another pyramid shimmers into being in front of him. “And then,” he continues, voice brimming with satisfaction, “there’s the wizarding section.”

He gestures Harry forward. Harry follows him through the suddenly visible door, still frowning.

“Harry,” Malfoy says, exasperated, “who do you think designed these pyramids? You don’t think muggles did, surely. And remember that mage war we were talking about earlier? There’s a rich history of wizards in this region. I’m beginning to think you didn’t pay attention to a single History of Magic lecture.”

Harry glances sheepishly at him. “Well..”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Luckily, I _did_ pay attention, and I’ve done my research for this trip. Just follow my lead, Potter, and you’ll be fine.”

 

**June 2001 — Giza Pyramids, Egypt**

 

“Well, how was I supposed to know the bloody thing was booby-trapped?”

“Malfoy,” Harry says, rubbing his forehead wearily, “We’ve been chasing hints of this scroll for _years_. You’ve been studying it for years. How could you _not_ know?”

“I’ll admit that there were a few small gaps in my knowledge, but—“

“Small? _Small?_ Malfoy. You were nearly _beheaded._ I was nearly _eaten_ by bloodthirsty beetles. We were _both_ nearly impaled, suffocated, drowned, crushed, and sealed into a tomb for a thousand years, and you say they were _small_?”

Malfoy purses his lips. _He’s_ _probably trying to find a flaw in my argument_ , Harry thinks, amused despite himself.

“Well, all right, I will admit that —“

“Good job, boys.”

A rich, honey-smooth baritone floats down to them as they approach the tunnel's entrance, still bickering. They freeze.

“You both made it out alive, even. I’m very nearly impressed. You both lose points for that shameful bickering, though. You two do realize we’ve been out of school for years, right?”

“ _Zabini_ ,” Malfoy grits out between clenched teeth. He draws his wand in one hand, his dagger in the other. Harry does the same. He can’t see Zabini yet _. The coward always did prefer skulking in shadows_ , he thinks, annoyed. _He’ll no doubt have his goons with him, too._ He groans as he thinks of the last time he went up against Bulstrode and Goyle. He got away — barely — but he was lucky. They left him too close to civilization, without making sure to strike a killing blow first, and Bill had been nearby purely by chance. Zabini won’t make the same mistake

They hear it before they see it. It’s the only thing that saves them.

From the corridor behind them comes the high-pitched droning of thousands of wings.

Harry meets Malfoy’s eyes in the gloom of the tunnel.

“Scarabs,” he mouths, and Malfoy nods. As one, they sheath their daggers, drop to the ground, and cast interlocking layered shield charms, clasping their free hands to help link the magic together.

For a second, nothing happens. Then the beetles are on them, waves of them, a humming, clicking, buzzing mass that oozes over the walls of the tunnel.

They hold perfectly still and wait. The beetles swarm over their shields, ignoring them, flowing out and away, toward the tunnel entrance.

Harry feels the tiniest pressure against his palm and turns his eyes toward Malfoy. His lips form a silent word — “Zabini.”

The fool — or, more likely, one of his minions — must have triggered something near the cave mouth. _He’ll be lucky to escape with his life,_ Harry thinks, allowing himself a moment of dark satisfaction.

Harry’s leg is cramping, and he has an itch on the side of his nose, but he dares not move. If those beetles are anything like the previous set they ran afoul of, they’ll be back this way when their task is completed.

And, yes, now he can hear the dull whine moving back along the corridor.

He presses his fingers lightly against Malfoy’s palm, feels an answering featherlight pressure.

They wait.

* * *

They don’t move until long after the swarm of beetles has retreated back into the darkness. When Harry doesn’t think he can ignore the cramp another minute, Malfoy slowly releases his hand and rises to his feet. Harry joins him gratefully, shaking his leg as quietly as he can.

Malfoy rolls his eyes, but waits for Harry to ease the cramp before gesturing toward the tunnel entrance with his still-pointy chin.

There’s been no sign of Zabini or his goons, but they’re not taking any chances. They advance cautiously, wands at the ready.

Malfoy blanches when they reach the mouth of the tunnel, and Harry has to look away for a moment, steeling his stomach and suppressing the urge to retch.

Two skeletons lie contorted on the sand, bones picked clean. Goyle and Bulstrode — he doesn’t have to examine them to know. Zabini is much smaller than either of his hulking bodyguards, Harry thinks clinically, ignoring the part of his mind that is gibbering and demanding he run screaming. These skeletons are both large.

He scans the area quickly, then puts a hand on Malfoy’s back. He hasn’t moved from the cave mouth. Harry gives him a gentle push, urging him silently on.

Zabini’s lanky body is glaringly absent — he’s escaped, then. They’ll have to be careful.

 

**June 2001 — Somewhere in the desert, Egypt**

 

Of course Zabini took the bloody camels.

Draco finds himself missing his ill-tempered ride as they stop to rest, and curses himself roundly for not concealing them better. Then he curses Zabini again for good measure.

He glances over at Potter, philosophically putting up a tent — and where did he get a bloody tent? Not that he minds, exactly. It’s certainly better than sleeping exposed on the sand.

He curses Potter then, but only a little bit. He’s actually quite grateful that Potter was in charge of stashing their supplies, and that he’d apparently done a markedly better job than he himself had. That rankles a bit, but he consoles himself with the fact that the supplies, unlike the camels, were unlikely to move or make noise.

He shuffles over to Potter’s side, poking his head into the surprisingly spacious tent.

“Where’d you learn to do all this?” he asks, grudging respect bleeding into his voice, despite his better judgment.

Potter looks up at him, flashing his infuriating smile.

“Seventh year. Horcrux hunting, with ‘Mione. We camped a lot. She was brilliant, and I thought some of her ideas might come in handy on my adventures.” He gestures around the tent. “I’ve taken to packing this most everywhere I go, now, on the job — thanks to bloody Zabini and his interference.

“Yes, fine, all right,” Draco huffs, “but where did you find room to hide a bloody tent?”

Potter turns, flashes another blinding grin as he nods to a small pouch in the corner. “Undetectable Extension Charm. ‘Mione got quite good at them, during the war. She made this for me as a graduation present.”

Draco looks more closely at the battered leather pouch, impressed despite himself. “May I—“

“Yeah, go ahead,” Potter nods, waving negligently at it, and Draco is floored by the sudden realization that Potter _trusts_ him.

Well, of course he knew that — they rely on one another too much in this business not to — but this is the first time that it’s really hit home.

He shakes his head, throwing off the uncomfortable thought, and wanders over to poke at the bag. He’ll have to examine this realization of course, but later. Much later. When he’s _not_ about to share a tent — even a good-sized and well-appointed tent like this one — with Potter.

 


	14. Weasleys

When Malfoy appears with Harry and Ginny that first time at the Burrow for dinner, Ron pulls Ginny aside with raised eyebrows and a million questions in his eyes. She just rolls her eyes and knocks his shoulder fondly. “Don’t ask.”

When Ginny appears at the Burrow a few weeks later, with Harry and Malfoy beside her and Astoria hanging on her arm and whispering to her, Ron rolls his eyes at his sister and doesn’t say a word.

When Narcissa and Lucius join the party some weeks after that, he doesn’t even bother to roll his eyes, merely sighs softly and hurries off to find some extra chairs.

* * *

Ron sees the way Harry and Malfoy hardly need words to communicate anymore, much as he doesn’t want to, and sighs, resigned.

The next time Ginny appears at the Burrow, he pulls her into a fierce hug, burying his nose in her shining hair and whispering “It’s really OK, you know, if you don’t want to marry Harry anymore, Gin.”

She pulls away from him, startled, then smiles fondly. “Thanks, big brother” she teases. “Means a lot, really.” But he sees the way she leans into Astoria over dinner and wonders.

It’s quickly obvious to everyone that Malfoy will drop in whenever Harry’s dining with them, and soon his unspoken invitation extends to Astoria and his parents.

Everyone becomes accustomed to Harry and Malfoy dashing out mid-meal, after excited whispering over whatever missive has just been delivered by owl. Molly, fearing that Harry will forget to eat, takes to preparing sandwiches with every meal and leaving them by her plate, so she can thrust them into his hands before he rushes out. Ron knows it’s hopeless when she begins to thrust sandwiches into Malfoy’s hands, too.


	15. Golden Snitches

**February 2002 — Carpathian Mountains, Hungary**

“Potter?”

“Hmm?”

“You have a plan, right? Potter?”

The only answer is the faint scrape of scales sliding over rock, and a muttered shield charm that deflects the sudden stream of fire that washes over them.

Draco gasps. “Potter!”

“Quiet!” he hisses. “You’ll only draw its attention.”

“But—“

Potter glares at him, and Draco shuts his mouth with a click, fuming silently. This day is _not_ working out like he’d planned.

Sure, Potter had _said_ dragons, but… Draco didn’t actually expect there to _be_ dragons. Not like this one — irritable and very, very large. Potter and Charlie had made it sound a lot more fun and a lot less like dying a brutal death.

Of course, in hindsight, he really should have known, once they brought Hagrid into the picture.

He shudders, recalling _that_ particular conversation.

No, he really ought to have known. The cavern is silent, waiting. Draco closes his eyes. _Right._

He knows where it is — they’d got that far, anyway, before the dragon appeared. He glances at Potter, absorbed in the task of weaving a complicated web of magic around them, and sighs.

* * *

 

**December 2001 — Hogsmeade, Scotland**

“‘Arry! Good to see ye! And Mister Malfoy o’course. Charlie here’s told me you two work together some now — are friends even. It’s right strange, I have ter say, but if ‘arry here says yer alright then I suppose ye must be.”

Hagrid shakes his head. “And then to find out yer wantin' ter know about Dragons. ‘E must have changed, I thought to myself, mustn’t ‘e. Don’ recall ye being’ very interested in ‘em before. Besides tryin’ ta get ‘arry here in trouble, that is.

“But, then, well, I realized ye must take at least a passin’ interest, what with yer name an’ all.”

He claps Malfoy heartily on the back and he pitches forward a bit, wincing.

“Now, ‘ow’s about a pint ‘o Tom’s finest, an’ I’ll tell ye what I know.”

He wanders off toward the bar. Charlie grins at Malfoy, wincing sympathetically.

“He’s great, isn’t he? It’s good to be back here, Harry. And good to know you’re still getting in trouble.” He props his elbows on the table and leans forward.

“How’s George holding up these days? Joke shop keeping him busy enough?”

“He’s all right,” Harry says, “but he seems a bit lonely. Could do with a visit, maybe.”

Hagrid returns then, bearing two mugs of something frothy and alarmingly blue. He plunks them down on the table, sliding the slightly smaller mug in front of Charlie.

“What about you two, then?” he asks, half-turning back toward the bar.

“Er, no, thank you,” Malfoy says hurriedly.

Harry nods agreement. “We’re fine, thanks, Hagrid.”

“Well, suit yerselves,” he says amiably, settling his bulk comfortably onto the chair, which creaks alarmingly. He took a swig of his drink and sighs appreciatively.

“Now that’s nice, that is. The thing yer have ta remember about dragons,” he continues loudly, startling them, “is that they remember everything. Take Norbert — er, Norberta. She’s not seen any of us in years — with the exception o’ Charlie here — but I’d bet she’d recognize us in a heartbeat. You too, Malfoy, if she ever got a good look at ye.”

Harry glances at Malfoy and he knows they’re both thinking of that night when he’d spied on them at Hagrid’s.

“We’ll, er, try to stay away from her, then,” he says diplomatically, grateful that their quest won’t take them into Romania. 

* * *

 

 **February 2002 — Carpathian Mountains, Hungary**

Draco almost wishes they’d had to face Norberta. Another spurt of fire washes over him, and he ducks down under the shield charm. It’s weakening; he’s getting uncomfortably warm. Sweat is beading on his brow, rolling down his cheeks and stinging his eyes.

Trust Potter’s luck to bring them face to face with the dragon he’d faced during the Triwizard Tournament back in fourth year. He clearly remembers them and is clearly unimpressed.

Charlie’s credentials had got them this far, deep into the dragon reserve in the remote wilds of Hungary, but he hadn’t been able to accompany them into the cavern. Clearly his _friends_ aren’t quite as reliable as he’d thought. The dragon wasn’t even supposed to be here. Charlie’s friends at the reserve had assured him that this particular dragon has a schedule that goes pretty much like clockwork. He ought to be out hunting for the next hour at least. Potter had tried to reason with it in parseltongue, when it had caught them in the act, but had succeeded only in annoying it further. It obviously remembered him.

Draco lunges to the side, scrambling behind a boulder. The fire is getting closer and hotter with every second they spend in this cave. He has to get the cup and get them out of there.

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and attempting to settle his frantic mind, and then leaps from behind his boulder, running as fast as he can past the startled dragon and toward the pile of gold behind him.

Potter gets between him and the dragon then, and he narrows his focus to the golden cup. Ten steps. Seven. Five. He stretches his arm as far as he can, snatching the cup by one elegantly curved handle. He shouts, exhilarated, and fumbles the Portkey from his pocket.

“Potter!”

And he’s there, fingers grasping for Draco’s, and fire is washing over them, and then the Portkey snatches them away.

They fall in a heap at the edge of the reserve, tumbling over one another’s lightly-singed bodies.

“Did you get it?” Charlie asks anxiously, looking around to see that they’re not spotted. It’s not _technically_ illegal to take things from the dragons’ hoards, but it’s certainly frowned upon. The dragon will be unsettled and irritable until it finds a suitable replacement, but Draco can’t find it in himself to care. He’s completely exhausted.

Charlie grabs ahold of each of them and activates his own Portkey.

 


	16. Silver Stars

Ginny sits in the parlor of their London flat, drinking tea with Harry. It’s unusual for him to be home for tea, and she wishes she had more pleasant topics to discuss, instead of the folder of papers her mother had thrust into her arms the other day.

She’s tried to explain that Harry has no interest in the details of the wedding, any more than he had the first time, but her mother had insisted and Ginny has yet to find the strength to stand up to her mother when she _insists_.

Harry is leaning in to take the folder, humoring her, when the owl taps at the window.

She sighs as he jumps up, nearly sloshing tea onto the papers in his hurry to let it in before she jerks them away. He opens the note and begins to read, absently pointing his wand toward the owl treats to summon one, just as Malfoy bursts into the room. Breezy is right behind him, wringing her hands and squeaking that “Master Potter must not be disturbed!”

Ginny sighs. She’d hoped those instructions would give her time to talk to Harry but, well.

“It’s fine, Breezy,” she says, exasperated. “He’s here now.”

“Potter!” Malfoy exclaims, striding to his side and completely ignoring Ginny. “What are you doing?”

Harry looks up, frowning. “Reading your note? That is what one does with notes, you know. Read them.”

There was a time, not so very long ago, Ginny thinks, that that tone from Malfoy would have sent Harry into a froth of anger. A lot has changed, these past three years.

“Yes, yes,” Malfoy says impatiently, “I can see that. Why aren’t you packed? For that matter, why are you reading it now?” The owl hoots impatiently for her treat, and Malfoy slaps his hand to his forehead. “It _didn’t_ just get here?”

Harry shrugs, mouth twisting in wry amusement. “‘Fraid so.”

Malfoy groans. “Bloody post owls get slower every week. _Merlin_ , Potter, we’ve got to _go_. We’ll miss it?”

“Miss what?”

Malfoy sighs theatrically. “Read the damn note and you’ll find out, won’t you? I’ll just grab your things — no, Ginevra, don’t get up — do you still keep a spare bag in your closet?”

“Yeah,” Harry waves him off, already engrossed once more. “Missing a few things, though. Grab an extra shirt, will you? Er, pants, too.”

Ginny can hear muttered grumbling issuing from their room, and then:

“Where the devil are your dress socks, Potter?”

“They’re not in the drawer?” Harry still hasn’t looked up from the note, and there’s a decided crease between his eyebrows. He’s thinking about something, Ginny knows, and not where the socks are.

“If they were in the drawer, I wouldn’t be asking, now would I?” Malfoy asks acerbically.

“Try the basket!” Harry calls back, “It’s on—“

“Found ‘em!”

Ginny watches the exchange incredulously, rolling her eyes so hard it actually hurts. They’ve both forgotten she’s there, apparently, and it stings a bit. She clears her throat.

“Harry…”

“Not now, Gin.” He waves her off, scanning through the note a second time.

She subsides, glaring fiercely, but her patience is running dangerously low. A few minutes later, she tries again, half-rising to wave the folder under his nose.

“Harry. I really need you to—“

Malfoy strides back into the room, Harry’s battered suitcase in hand, speaking before he’s even through the door.

“I grabbed your dress jacket too — might come in handy on this trip. We really have got to do something about your wardrobe, Potter, it’s a bloody menace. Remind me to take you shopping when we get back to London.”

Ginny huffs in annoyance, because really, this is too much, and he turns to mutter a distracted “Pardon me, Ginevra,” at her as he sits on the couch beside her, forcing her to scoot over. He spreads a map out on the table, pushing aside the plates of biscuits and knocking the folder of wedding notes onto the floor. He doesn’t even glance at it.

“Look,” he says, and it rankles that all it takes is that one word from him and Harry does just that.

He gasps. “Is that—“

Malfoy shoots him a grin. “Yes. _Finally_. Which is why we really do have to go.”

They grin at one another for a moment, then Harry turns an apologetic smile on her.

“Sorry, Gin. Gotta run.”

“But, Harry…”

He leans down and kisses her forehead distractedly. “Do whatever you want. I’ve authorized you to access my vault — the goblins shouldn’t give you any trouble. I’ll be back…”

He turns to Malfoy. “When will we be back?”

Malfoy shrugs. “Depends on how long it takes, I suppose.”

And with a shrug and a quick wave from Harry, Malfoy snatches up the map, shoves Harry’s bag into his hands, and they’re gone.

Ginny sighs and bends down to pick up the papers that are now scattered across the floor.

The owl hoots again, and she stops to fetch it a couple owl treats and pet its head for a moment. Poor neglected thing. It seems as lonely as she is.

When it flies away, she turns back to the scattered papers. Most are in her mother’s neat handwriting, but there’s one on top in an elegant hand she doesn’t recognize.

She picks it up, frowning, and realizes that it’s the note Harry was reading when Malfoy arrived. He must have dropped it once Malfoy pulled out the map. She should just throw it out, or maybe burn it — she knows their job can be dangerous — but she bites her lip, curious. Surely it couldn’t hurt to read it? Harry had just left it lying there, after all.

> _Potter—_
> 
> _I’ve a lead on the painting. Pack a suit of decent clothes, if you have them. Muggle. The gray dress jacket should do nicely. I’ll be by to collect you shortly._
> 
> _—M_


	17. Golden Snitches

**Chapter 17: Golden Snitches**

**June 2003 — London, England**

The owl pecks at the window just as they’re sitting down to eat. Harry jumps up, eagerly anticipating the contents of the missive. And, yes, their international floo request has been approved and Malfoy has arranged their rooms. Everything is in order. Just in time, too, since they’ll be leaving the following morning.

Harry hums to himself all the way to the dinner table. He notices Ginny’s frown as he sinks back into his chair, and pauses. Surely he’s told her? Better to be sure, though.

“We’re leaving for Florence in the morning,” he says as he reaches for the peas. “We’ll be flooing out at nine.”

* * *

**June 2003 — Florence, Italy**

It had been Malfoy’s idea, born of a lot of very intense pacing and plotting that first night, to disguise themselves as journalists. Harry had vetoed the ridiculous fake mustaches, but the cover story had been a stroke of genius. Not that he’s ever going to tell Malfoy that.

They’d gotten nearly everything they needed from eager security guards and museum employees. They’d all seemed perfectly willing to discuss security and restoration methods with anyone who offered the chance to have their name in print.

Not that they’d actually be writing the article, he thought, but that doesn’t matter, really. Just the possibility of seeing their name in the papers had got people talking. It’s not long before they’ve worked out a plan of attack.

* * *

Two grown men huddled under the invisibility cloak would have been a hilarious sight — except they’re invisible. Conveniently, Harry thinks. Well, there is an inconvenient amount of hunching over and bumping hands and elbows jabbing ribs, but at least no one can see them.

Not that anyone is _there_ to see them, seeing as it’s the middle of the night, long after the museum had closed for the day. They’d hidden, curled into a cramped nook behind what he thought was a rather hideous statue of a horse made of junk, carefully draped in the invisibility cloak as the last patrons had been herded out, as the employees had turned off the lights and locked the doors, as the security guard had shuffled past on his rounds.

Now, secure in their invisibility, they maneuver themselves to their feet and rub the cramps from their muscles.

It wouldn’t do to be discovered on camera, Harry thinks, stifling a chuckle as he thinks of the fright they would give the security guards, a disembodied hand or foot floating in an empty room.

“Ready?” he whispers, and Malfoy nods, casting another disillusionment over them. Together, they make their way to the main gallery, where the painting they need hangs. Only, it isn’t there. All of the planning and scheming, and it isn’t even there.

They stare, flabbergasted, at the blank frame, and the tiny sign that reads “This painting is currently being restored by Baldicotts to return it to its former glory. We apologize for any inconvenience.”

“Well, fuck me,” Malfoy says, after a moment. “Come on.”

“Er, where—“

Malfoy sighs, grabs Harry’s arm, and apparates them.

They land back in their hotel room, and Harry throws the cloak off. “Malfoy! What the fuck was that all about?”

Malfoy doesn’t answer, just turns toward the bathroom. As he walks through the door he says, over his shoulder, “Because that painting is being restored by Pansy bloody Parkinson, and we can hardly visit her in the middle of the night.”

Harry gapes at the door. Parkinson is restoring the painting?

* * *

Parkinson is restoring the painting.

How very… odd, Harry thinks, as she opens the door of Baldicotts: Restorers of Fine Art.

“Oh,” she says, tone thoroughly unimpressed, “it’s you. Tell me, what have I done to warrant this?” She addresses this last to the sky as if the clouds might answer.

“Pansy, you incomparable bitch,” Malfoy drawls, “you grow more beautiful and cruel every day. You wound me, truly.”

She laughs delightedly. “C’mere you,” she says, drawing Malfoy into a hug. She thrusts him to arm’s length and studies him for a moment, kisses his cheeks, and then nods at Harry, sleek black bob swinging.

She looks much as she had in school, only sharper. Like the years have worn off any softness and only hard, brilliant diamond remains.

“You look good darling,” she says, as she gestures them inside. “Life must be agreeing with you lately.”

Malfoy smiles. “As a matter of fact—“

“Not before tea, darling. You know I don’t discuss business without a strong cuppa and a good chocolate.”

“Never change, Pansy dear,” he says fondly. “How else would I know what to get you for Christmas?”

“As to that, Draco, you really must stop sending me green things.” She darts a glance at Harry, and he looks steadily back, confused.

She shrugs, turning back to Malfoy, who looks a tiny bit uncomfortable, but determined to ignore it.

They settle into stylish, yet surprisingly comfortable leather chairs in a small parlor off the main room. She snaps her fingers, and a house elf pops into view. “Mindy, tea for three, please. And some of those chocolates we just got in from Paris.”

Mindy nods and winks out, reappearing quickly with an elegant tea tray.

“So,” Parkinson asks, crossing her legs daintily, “what nefarious scheme has brought you to my place of business today?”

Malfoy leans forward, steepling his fingers. “You’re restoring the Carmichael portrait for Uffizzi’s.

She frowns, tapping her overly-pointed red nails against her cup. “Yes. That’s a statement of fact, not a request.”

Malfoy takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “We need it.”

She raises her eyebrow. “You need what?”

“The painting. It’s cursed you see. Carmichael was a distant relative of my grandmother, and his portrait was cursed back in Grindelwald’s day. We simply can’t allow it to continue making the muggles sick.” He leans forward, warming to his subject.

Both of her eyebrows shoot up, nearly disappearing under her close-cropped bangs.

Harry leans back in his chair and sips his tea, content to watch. Malfoy is a master at manipulation.

Parkinson, it seems, is unmoved by his charm.

“It would be against my ethical code, darling,” she says, sipping her tea calmly.

“Bullshit,” Malfoy says. “You don’t _have_ an ethical code — never have. You forget I know you.”

She lifts a finger to silence him.

“It would be against my ethical code,” she continues implacably, “to do it myself. Which, honestly darling, you don’t want anyway. I may be a whiz at restoring paintings, but I leave the forgery in the much more capable hands of my assistant.”

Harry leans forward now, interested. “Where is this assistant?”

She waves a hand airily. “Who knows. She owled me earlier that she had met up with some old school acquaintances at lunch and was taking the rest of the day off to take them sightseeing.”

“Old school acquaintances?”

“Mmm. You might know them as your wife and fiancée.”

“Oh.” Malfoy looks nonplussed for a moment. “Who is this assistant, then?”

Pansy uncrosses her legs and recrosses them in the other direction. “Not to worry. Luna is the best forger I’ve ever encountered.”

Harry nearly inhales his tea. “I’m sorry, did you say Luna? As in Luna _Lovegood_?”

Pansy grins toothily. “Like I said. She’s the best.”

She pauses.

“Now, we come to the question of payment.”

“We can give you—“

She waves him off as if she were swatting a fly. “I don’t want your money, Draco.”

He frowns. “Then, what do you want?”

She considers for a moment, tapping idly at the side of her cup, and chewing the side of her lip, in what Harry assumes is a very un-Pansy-like way. Then she uncrosses her legs and leans forward like she’s about to tell them a secret.

“I want an invite to one of your dinners at the Burrow.”

Malfoy does choke on his tea. “You want — but— good god, woman. Why?” he splutters.

“Hey,” Harry says, shoving him good-naturedly. “That’s my family you’re knocking.”

“I know, but—“

“Malfoy,” Harry says, a note of warning in his voice to temper the humor. “You like those dinners.”

“Yes, but—“

Harry’s eyes narrow, and he looks past Malfoy to Parkinson’s amused face. “But, why do _you_ want to be invited, is the question. What’s your game, Parkinson?”

She laughs lightly. “No game. Well, not entirely, anyway. I just want an in.”

“An in…” Malfoy’s eyes widen in horror. “Pansy, no.”

She quirks an eyebrow at him. “Pansy yes.”

He sighs heavily. “Which one? Which horrible ginger Weasley do you have your eye on this time, wench?”

She rolls her eyes and pats him on the head. “If you must know, it’s George.”

Malfoy stares, horrified. “No! Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes? Why on earth would you—“

“Have you looked at him lately, darling?” Pansy interrupts. “He’s definitely eye-candy now. And I find I enjoy his company. I just want a chance to get to know him better, that’s all. Surely you can afford that.”

Malfoy grumbles to himself, but Harry interrupts him by placing a quelling hand on his knee.

“I’m not entirely sure this is a good idea, mind, but if any of the Weasleys can handle you, it would be George. The next dinner is this coming Sunday. Can you make it?”

She grins. “Wouldn’t miss it.” She rubs her hands together, her manner entirely businesslike once more. “When do you need your painting?”

“As soon as possible,” Harry says. Malfoy still looks like he’s having trouble forming words.

She nods. “It will take a few weeks for Luna to complete the reproduction. We’ll need to restore the real painting first and then copy it. I’ll owl you when it’s ready.”

“If you’re going to be attending Weasley dinners, you may as well just tell me in person.”

“Hmm. True. Now,” she says, rising from her chair and ushering them out of her office, “I’m afraid I have to get back to work.”

She leads them back to the door, heels clicking smartly against the black and white tile floor.

It’s a lovely suite of offices, now Harry is paying attention. Elegant and refined, with the touch of whimsy that could only have come from Luna.

Luna and Parkinson. Now _there_ is a match made in a special kind of hell. Harry shakes his head, hoping he knows what he’s doing, but he’s fairly certain George will be able to handle her.


	18. Silver Stars

Ginny doesn’t pay much attention when the owl first arrives. It’s not unusual for Harry to receive an owl during dinner, after all. She does look up, though, when the owl flies off and Harry remains seated. It’s not unusual for him to leave dinner abruptly after one of these missives, haring after Malfoy on some adventure. It _is_ unusual when he stays.

She waits, fork poised halfway to her mouth, for the explanation she senses is coming. When it does…

She drops her fork with a clatter. “I’m sorry. Did you say Florence? _Tomorrow?_ ”

He looks genuinely puzzled. “Haven’t I told you?”

She closes her eyes, exasperated. She’d tell him off in a heartbeat, except that she’s dreamt of visiting Florence for years. She won’t pass up the opportunity of a lifetime. Perhaps it’s Harry’s way of apologizing for all those interrupted dinners? She excuses herself hastily, making and discarding itineraries and plans as she calls Breezy to help her with her clothes. _Florence!_

* * *

They meet the Malfoys at the international floo. Of course they do.

Well, that’s all right, Ginny thinks. It’s just like a double date. An extended double date. And it’s not like she minds the chance to spend time with Astoria.

They check into the hotel, chattering excitedly, to find they have adjoining rooms. It’s certainly convenient, and Ginny can’t find reason to complain.

They spend the day sightseeing, hopping from one museum to another, and Ginny starts to wonder why they’re actually on this trip. It’s not to see the sights of Florence, as they’ve skipped a handful she’d been dying to see without her opinion ever being sought.

Harry and Draco are in their own little world, peppering the gallery attendants with questions and studying the paintings carefully. Ginny hangs back with Astoria, finding herself bored of art by the time they’re in their fifth gallery. Sixth? They’ve all blurred together.

She realizes that night, staring at the maps unfurled over every surface in their room, with Harry and Draco both bent over them, that this isn’t about her at all.

She curls up on the sofa in the corner and falls into a restless doze.

The next day, she tells Harry that she’ll spend the remainder of their stay in Astoria’s room, and he can share with Malfoy. He doesn’t even look up at her as he nods, and she thinks _in for a sickle, in for a galleon_ , and announces that she and Astoria will be making their own itinerary as well.

She’s in Florence, dammit; she’s going to enjoy herself -- fiancé or no fiancé.


	19. Weasleys

When Pansy follows the Malfoys into the Burrow’s kitchen a few weeks later, looking sheepish and waspish all at once, Ron asks if he can take her coat. When she breaks off the muttered apology and grants him a relieved smile, he takes her arm, escorts her into the living room, where everyone else has already taken their usual places, and introduces her to George.

Hermione asks him that evening, as he helps her into her coat, how on earth he’d known they’d hit if off. Winking at Ginny over his wife’s shoulder, he just smiles.


	20. Golden Snitches

**March 2004 — The Burrow, England**

 

Harry sighs, slouching further down the sofa where he’d thrown himself after eating far too much at one of Molly’s Sunday brunches. “We’re not going to be able to do a lot of searching in muggle scuba gear. And Zabini will likely only give us one shot at it.” He rubs his eyes. “I wish we had a metal detector.”

Malfoy, sprawled on the couch next to him, raises a quizzical eyebrow. “What’s a metal detector?”

“It’s… well, I’m not sure exactly how they work.” He shrugs helplessly. "Anyway, they’re muggle things. They can find bits of metal buried in the dirt. People mostly use them to search for buried treasure, but honestly I think they’re kind of gimmicky. Dudley and Uncle Vernon got one, once, and I got to play with it a bit when Dudley got bored of it after he didn’t find anything after five minutes of wandering around the yard. Too bad there’s not a wizarding version.”

Malfoy scoffs, leans over to flick Harry’s forehead. “It’s a diamond, Potter, not made of metal.”

Harry can tell Malfoy is gearing himself up to launch into the standard ‘but you wouldn’t know that because you grew up poor’ teasing, and steels himself, but instead he stops, mouth part-way open, staring at him.

“Malfoy?” Harry waves a hand in front of his face.

Malfoy lights up, which, honestly, isn’t the reaction he was expecting.

“Harry!” he exclaims, eyes sparkling, “You’re a bloody genius!”

That’s _really_ not what he was expecting. “Sorry, what?” He must have heard him wrong. Did he space out again?

Malfoy ignores him. _At least that’s normal_ , Harry thinks, bemused.

“That’s exactly what we need! It won’t even be that hard; we’ll just have to… Pansy! Hermione! We need your brains!”

Bill wanders over after a few minutes, drawn by the intense discussion that’s taken over their corner of the living room, followed by the Malfoys and Arthur.

Ron, who’s been watching with a strange expression on his face as he rubs Hermione’s shoulders, breaks in suddenly.

“You don’t even need a physical device, though — you just need to modify a detection spell. Although… Having some way to trigger it when you can’t spare the attention for a spell might help…”

Malfoy stares at him in astonishment. “Ronald, I never thought I’d say this, but you’re brilliant!” He claps him heartily on the back.

Ron grimaces. “Just don’t call me Ronald ever again. I feel like I’m in trouble whenever someone does that.”

Molly and Hermione share a knowing smirk and Ron colors. Malfoy just laughs. “You prefer Weasel, then?”

“If I can call you Ferret in return.”

Malfoy snorts. “I don’t think I’m ready to call you ‘Ron’ yet, so Weasley will have to suffice for now.”

Ron looks relieved. “Good. Not sure I’m ready to call you ‘Draco’ either, Malfoy.”

* * *

By the time they leave, once brunch has stretched well past dinner, they’ve made a fair bit of progress. Stranger still, they’ve all got plans to meet up again the following week for further research. Molly doesn’t protest — Harry knows she loves hosting their gatherings, and he secretly thinks she would do it more often if she thought she could get away with it — and it’s so nice to see everyone getting along. Strange, but nice.

This ‘Dark magic detector’ is turning into a fascinating bit of spellwork, and he can practically see the wheels spinning in Hermione’s head as Ron helps her into her coat. Ron makes an exasperated face at him as he herds Hermione toward the floo. Harry knows she’ll be up all night researching, but he can’t find it in himself to mind.

 _That’s just how life works_ , he thinks vaguely, as he twists in place and feels the tug of apparition pulling him away from the cozy Burrow. _Hermione stays up all night doing the research, and we take care of the adventuring_.

He doesn’t notice that somewhere along the line, ‘we’ has morphed from him and Ron to him and Draco.

 

* * *

 

**September 2004 — Somewhere in the Caribbean**

 

Harry marvels at the shimmering, blue-tinted world around him. Fronds of sea-grass wave seductively off to his left; a school of tiny fish darts past him to the right, rainbow scales shimmering in the weak light. The fierce tropical sun is dimmed and filtered here below the water, only the tiniest fraction of light able to pierce the depths. It’s otherworldly. Beautiful.

A hand clamps down suddenly on his shoulder and he starts, turning abruptly toward Malfoy’s exasperated face. He can’t speak underwater, but his thumb jerks toward their goal, then taps impatiently at his wrist, where his air-gauge gleams faintly. Harry nods, chastised. They only have enough air for an hour - an hour-and-a-half, tops if they push it. He doesn’t want to push it.

He turns resolutely away from the beckoning alien world around him and follows Malfoy’s wetsuit-clad form toward the hulking shipwreck.

Malfoy looks even more dangerous in a muggle wetsuit, all gleaming black rubber and toothy grin. Harry feels a frisson of something unfamiliar running up his spine, and he looks around warily, scanning for danger. The ocean stares back at him, placid and opaque. After one last wary glance behind, he turns back to follow him.

They’ve kept this dive as secret as they can, even laying down a false trail in the American Southwest, but… he wouldn’t put it past Zabini to turn up here. The man has an uncanny knack for finding them when he’s least wanted.

Malfoy’s expression is hard to read as he waits for Harry to catch up, hidden in the shadow of the decaying mass of barnacle-encrusted timber. Harry wishes, not for the first time, that Snape had been able to teach him legilimency all those years ago. He’d give a pretty penny for one of the magical communicators Ron and George are working on, as Malfoy’s scowl deepens. His hand twitches reflexively toward his hip, where he feels the lack of his wand keenly.

The wreck just had to be in a strong magical dead-zone, didn’t it? Of course, that’s likely why the blood diamond hasn’t been recovered before now. For that matter, Harry thinks, eyes widening, it isn’t terribly unlikely that something in that wreck is _causing_ the dead zone — maybe even the blood diamond itself.

Malfoy rolls his eyes and taps a button on his wrist.

“What on earth is wrong, Potter?”

His exasperated voice echoes suddenly around Harry’s skull and he jumps, then glares when Malfoy sniggers. He’d forgotten about the muggle communication device that’s built into their suits.

He presses the button on his own wrist. “Yeah, yeah, Malfoy, very funny. Let’s just get on with this, yeah?”

Malfoy studies him for a moment, frowning, then glances down at his air gauge and nods.

“I’m leaving the channel open, though. We may get separated, and the last thing I need is to have to rescue you because you’ve spaced out again. Follow me.”

Harry hates to say he loves it when Malfoy is bossy, but Merlin help him, he does.

Malfoy turns, kicking slowly through a gaping hole in the hull. Harry follows, using his forearm to brush away more of the sea grass that clings to the opening, kicking his feet and propelling himself past the rotting timbers — they don’t look even a little bit like teeth, he tells himself firmly — and into the darkness beyond.

Malfoy has already activated his flashlight, and Harry does the same. The twin beams of light dance crazily around the cavernous room, obscuring more than they reveal. Harry squints, looking for some sort of opening… _There_.

“Found it!” he calls, and Malfoy’s light swings around to join his. Together, they reveal that it is indeed a doorway with a set of rickety stairs leading down and to the right.

Malfoy shoots him a quick grin. “I’m going in. Light my way from behind, will you?”

Harry nods and follows him deeper into the ship.

It takes longer than they’d expected to find the right storage room, even longer to find the right crate inside it. But when they do…

“Bloody hell!” Malfoy whispers. Harry’s low whistle echoes over his words, and then he snorts.

“Been hanging out with Ron lately, have you?”

“Shut up,” Malfoy says, but his words don’t have the usual bite to them. “I’ve been going with you to the Weasley dinners for months now, you know. Years, even.”

Harry stares at him. It’s true, he realizes. After that first day, when he’d pulled him with him into the side-along apparition without thinking about it because they were in the middle of some argument or another, he _has_ been going to Weasley dinners regularly. Now that he thinks of it, Astoria’s joined them lately as well, and Lucius, and Narcissa, and even Pansy has become a regular after that job in Florence. Huh.

“Potter!” Malfoy snaps. “Get ahold of yourself! You can go back to whatever identity crisis you’re having _after_ we get this thing back to the boat.”

Harry blinks, then blinks again. “Ah, Malfoy… How _are_ we going to get this back to the boat?”

He rolls his eyes. “Obviously, Potter, we’ll just cast a — oh.”

Harry snorts. _Oh, indeed_. He grasps one of the chest’s handles and tugs experimentally on it. Malfoy gets the idea and copies his movement on the other side. It doesn’t budge.

“Well, shit.”

They stare at it in silence for a moment. Malfoy frowns down at his air gauge, tapping it lightly and grimacing at whatever he sees there. “We’ll have to leave most of it here. Do you have that detector?”

Harry nods, fishing it out of the pouch at his waist, and passes it to him.

They find the diamond, eventually, with only minutes to spare. The needles on both air gauges are pushing disturbingly close to red — and they still have to get back up — when Malfoy lifts the umpteenth jewel and the dark magic detector goes crazy.

They eye one another, eyebrows lifted in surprise. This thing is _dark_.

Harry checks his gauge again and winces, hurrying to pull out the specially enhanced magic-dampening containment pouch — Charlie, Bill, and George’s contribution to the endeavor. His fingers, clumsy in the enhanced scuba gear, fumble for a moment as he tries to open it. The needle ticks over into the red.

Harry shakes the bag impatiently, finally wrenching it open. Malfoy drops the jewel in and Harry closes it, securing it to his belt.

He glances down at the chest regretfully, jewels winking temptingly back at him, then back at his gauge. _Shit_.

“Malfoy — we have to go, now.”

Malfoy sighs, but nods. “Right. Just let me…”

He draws out a second pouch and fumbles it open. The needle ticks again, and Harry can feel his anxiety rising. “Come on, Malfoy!”

Malfoy waves him off as he scoops a handful of jewels and coins into his pouch, secures it, and then nods. “Let’s go.”

Harry follows him from the room, rolling his eyes.

“Was that really necessary?” he gasps, once they’ve heaved themselves back over the side of the boat and discarded their oxygen masks. He rolls over onto his back, squinting his eyes against the harsh Caribbean afternoon sun.

He glances through his lashes to see Malfoy copying his movements; he flashes a quicksilver grin.

“I couldn’t just _leave_ it all there. Anyway,” he says as he rolls suddenly, until he’s propped over Harry, muscles defined even though the wetsuit, “you like it.”

Harry stares up at him, blonde hair shining like a halo around his head, darker than usual and dripping water on Harry’s cheek, and he can’t find it in himself to mind.

“Like what?” he asks, voice coming out breathless, hoarser than he intends.

Malfoy grins his lazy, predatory smile, all teeth and charisma. “This,” he says, gesturing expansively at the glaring sun, the dazzling blue sea, himself.

“Adventure. Thrill. _Danger._ ”

Harry tries to disagree but he can’t find the words. He stares, mouth open, at the light blush that dusts Malfoy’s cheeks. Then he rolls off him, breaking the moment.

“Come on, Potter,” he says, all business once more. “Let’s get back to shore. I want to get out of this blasted suit and back to London so I can run some tests on this before Zabini gets wind of it.”

A delicate cough sounds from the boat’s cabin. “That might be more difficult than you imagine.”

Their heads swing around in unison to stare at the interloper, and Harry thinks distantly that it would be funny, if not for the pistol pointed at Malfoy’s chest.

Malfoy stares blankly at the intruder. “Fucking Zabini,” he mutters. “What in Salazar’s name are _you_ doing here?”

Zabini snorts, but the pistol doesn’t waver. “What do you think, Malfoy? Give it to me.”

Malfoy scowls and sets his jaw in the stubborn expression Harry has become intimately acquainted with in the past six years.

“No.”

Harry rolls his eyes but sidles cautiously to the left. _If I can just get a little closer…”_

He wills Malfoy to keep talking. Luckily the git’s stubbornness is something he knows he can count on.

“No?” Blaise looks pointedly at the pistol in his hand, and then back to Malfoy. “Do you know what this is?”

“I’m not stupid, Zabini. Of course, I know what it is.”

_Just a little closer…_

“Then you know what she’ll do to you at this range?” He pats the gun fondly; Harry grimaces. He’d never noticed how crazy Zabini was back in school. Malfoy, apparently, is thinking the same thing.

“Did Voldemort do something to your mind during the war, Zabini, or were you always this unhinged and I just never noticed?”

Zabini grimaces in disgust, and his face flickers with something that might be fear.

“Don’t say his n—“

Harry sees his chance, and, as he is a Gryffindor, he takes it without stopping to think. He launches himself through the air, hitting Zabini with a full-body flying tackle, sending them both overboard.

The sharp retort of the pistol echoes in the humid air and Harry fervently hopes that Malfoy had the sense to get out of the way. He can’t check, though; He’s too busy thrashing about in the water, trying to stay afloat and also get the upper hand.

And then Zabini’s hands are around his neck and _squeezing_ , and the world starts to go dim and flickery around the edges.

There’s a deafening _crack_ , and then Zabini’s hold loosens. Harry gasps in a breath that is more water than air and feels a hand snag his hair — none too gently — and lift him out of the water.

He finds himself on their hired boat once more, on his hands and knees on the wood planking of the deck, struggling to breathe.

Gentle hands support him, pulling his hair back from his face as he retches and coughs up the water he swallowed, then pressing his glasses into his hands.

“Thanks,” he rasps, when he feels reasonably sure he’s not actually going to drown.

The hands retreat, and Malfoy’s features resettle themselves into their familiar expressionless mask.

“Let’s go. Before he gets back.”

Harry scrambles to his feet. “What did you…?”

Malfoy’s mouth twitches into a reluctant smile. “Whacked him over the head with an oar. Not my most elegant move, but effective.”

Harry snorts, running his eyes over Malfoy’s form. There’s something— his gaze snags on Malfoy’s left arm, cradled at an odd angle against his side.

“Malfoy… is that _blood?_ Did he _shoot you_?”

He scowls, turning away. “It’s nothing, Potter. Just a scratch.”

“It’s _not_ nothing. Here, let me—“

Harry reaches for his arm, but Malfoy jerks away from him.

“I said it’s fine! _Merlin_! I’ll tend to it once we get back. I don’t know how hard I hit him, and that island’s just within swimming distance. I don’t trust Zabini as far as I can throw him.”

Harry nods, giving in, but quietly determines to keep a close eye on him until they get back. “Right. Let’s go, then.”

* * *

Some minutes later, a small, dark craft slips out from a sheltered cove, fishes a dripping, fuming Zabini out of the water, and follows..


	21. Silver Stars

Ginny sighs wistfully. “We’re just afterthoughts, aren’t we?”

Astoria smiles a sad half-smile. “I’m afraid not. For us to be afterthoughts, they’d have to think of us at all.”

Ginny closes her eyes, swallows hard. “They don’t, do they?” It comes out on a half-laugh, half sob.

“They’re men, darling. What did you expect?”

“Why do you stay with him, then?”

Ginny opened her eyes in time to see Astoria shrug.

“He’s not unkind, even if he doesn’t love me. We’re friends, even. His parents are kind to me. I was expected to marry well, you see. The proper pureblood princess. And Draco was my prince — we neither of us had much of a choice.

“What about Daphne?” Ginny tries to recall what little she knows of the older girl. They never really interacted at Hogwarts.

“Daphne went the _other_ route. Ran off with some tech guy to America. A muggle — can you imagine? But he’s handsome and wealthy, and he treats her like a princess. They’re stupidly in love. She says it wasn’t very hard to give up magic, after the War.” She sighs. “Sometimes I hate her for it, for leaving me to live up to our parents’ expectations for the both of us. Usually, I just hate myself for going along with their plans. Why can’t I run off, too?”

Astoria gestures vaguely west with her teacup. “She’s even invited me to live with her in California. Says there’s plenty of rich men to go around.”

“Why haven’t you?” Ginny cradles her teacup close to her body, soaking up the welcome warmth. The room seems to have chilled while Astoria speaks.

“Because I—“ She twists her fingers in her lap, firms her jaw, resolute. “Because I’m afraid of disappointing my parents, I suppose. And afraid of not liking it there and not being able to come home again. But mostly because… I’m afraid of having to find my own path, of what I might find along the way. Of course, I already know, but I’d be forced to admit that — that I don’t actually like men, very much.” Her lips twist wryly.

“You mean you’re…”

She looks down, toying idly with her teacup. “Yes. I’m gay.”

Ginny leans over and wraps her in a quick hug. “Me too. Well, Bi, I mean. Not that I’ve had enough attention from a man to count, of late.”

Astoria snorts. “You’re terrible. Thank you.”

Things feel lighter, after that, and the conversation ranges widely as afternoon stretches into evening. 

* * *

“Do you ever wonder what they see in us?” Ginny asks wistfully.

Astoria reaches out, tangles their fingers together. “Truthfully? I don’t think they see us at all.”

Ginny shivers, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, pulling Astoria in closer to her body like an afterthought.

“Does it feel colder in here to you?”

Astoria shrugs. “It always does, when Draco leaves. He may not love me, but it always feels as if the clouds have swallowed up the sun when he’s gone.”

She pauses, then adds delicately, “He shines brighter when he’s with Harry.”

Ginny chews her lip, nodding. “I know. Harry too. It’s like… It’s like they bring out the best in one another. It was the opposite, in school, but now that they’re friends…” She frowns, as a thought strikes her. “If they’re suns, what are we?”

Astoria smiles sadly. “You and I? We’re moons, darling. Forever doomed to orbit ‘round them and reflect their light.”

Ginny’s shoulders droop and she forcibly straightens her spine. She wants to slump down onto the couch, but won’t let herself. “Yeah. That’s rather what I thought.”

They stand in silence for a moment, and then Ginny shakes herself, trying to shake away the somber mood.

“I can’t take this anymore. Come on. Let’s do something.”

“Like what?” Astoria asks, amused, but there’s a glint of what Ginny thinks might be interest in her eyes. She feels a flicker of warmth, something that feels a lot like hope.

“Well, they can’t expect us to sit around all day doing nothing until they decide to grace us with their presence. I have no intention of playing the medieval princess — I _despise_ needlework.”

“I expect they don’t realize we do anything at all when they’re not with us. I’d be surprised if they remember we exist.”

Ginny scowls, firming her jaw. “Yes, well. They’re idiots, then. Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

Her eyes are definitely sparkling now.

Ginny feels her mouth tug up into a sly smile.

“Dancing.”

“Dancing? In this?” Astoria waves a hand down her body, covered in a mint-green dressing gown.

“Hmm,” Ginny says, really looking at her, at the way the pale silk hides and reveals her curves as she moves. “You’re right. That won’t do at all. Here — let’s get you something of mine. We’re about the same size.”

She laughs. “I’ve got a good three inches on you, darling. You’re mad — It will never work.”

Ginny smirks at her. “Well, then we won’t have you wear my shortest skirt — and I’ll be sure to wear my tallest heels.”

* * *

 

 _She’s wrong_ , Ginny thinks later, as they watch Harry and Draco whispering together and laughing into one another’s shoulders at her mother’s dinner table, never thinking to let the rest of them in on the joke. _They may be suns, but we aren’t moons. They dance around one another in a binary system, teasing and twirling, never quite touching. Astoria and I? We’re distant stars watching enviously across the night sky as their eyes never stray in our direction._

 

 


	22. Weasleys

Malfoy is the first to notice the ring on her finger. Well, the first to congratulate her, anyway. And isn’t that a strange turn of events, Hermione thinks, bemused.

“You’re the last person I thought would be happy for me — marrying a Weasley, and all,” she says, laughing lightly to show that she isn’t upset as she fiddles with the ring, but she knows her eyes betray her curiosity. They always do.

He holds her gaze steadily for a moment and she squirms, not wanting to acknowledge the bitterness that has crept into her tone. She hadn’t meant it, truly.

He raises an eyebrow, tilting his chin toward his father, hunched over some muggle video game in the corner with Ron and Arthur Weasley. And isn’t that a sight to behold. Hermione feels a swift upwelling of pride for her fiancé, cheeks flushing as the word surprises her and she gazes fondly down at the ring sparkling on her left hand.

Draco smiles as she turns her attention back to him.

“I never thought he was good enough for you, it’s true,” he says softly. “But I’ve changed my mind. He proved himself, in the war.”

They both pause for a moment, letting the weight of those words press in on them and then roll away. It’s getting better. The grief and pain have lessened, five years on, but it’s still hard, sometimes. They lost so many.

He grins mischievously then, a twinkle in his eye letting her know that whatever is coming next will be… interesting.

“And he must have… _other_ talents,” he says with a hint of a leer, “to be able to hold your attention.”

She blushes fiercely. She can’t help it — She isn’t used to the Malfoy who can say such things out loud, even if only in implication. She wonders if Harry knows that side of him — if he _likes_ it.

Ginny, coming to make sure Malfoy hasn’t murdered her and hidden the body, no doubt, arrives just in time to hear and collapses in a fit of giggles.

Hermione’s cheeks flame hotter, and for a moment she thinks she might combust. She turns her attention away, hoping that distraction will help.

Pansy and George sit on a small couch in the corner, opposite the video game enthusiasts. They sit close together, heads bent over something George holds — a new Wheezes product? — whispering animatedly.

Molly and Narcissa sit in a pair of cozy chairs drawn up to the fire, deep in discussion, by the looks of it, knitting needles clacking away.

Molly scowls, suddenly, halting her needles with an abrupt chop of her hand, and huffs in frustration, eying the snarled mess. “I just can’t seem to get it right!”

Narcissa hums thoughtfully, leaning forward to examine the yarn. Her pale hair falls in a silvery curtain around her face and she absently shoves it back. The gesture is so… un-Malfoy-like.

“I think… yes,” she says, nodding. “Here.” She reaches forward, then hesitates, looking up at Molly and biting her lip. “May I?”

It strikes Hermione then how much they want to be accepted here, in a house they would never have deigned to enter six long years ago.

Molly freezes, surprised, and then the lines in her forehead smooth and her eyes crinkle at the corners as she smiles. “Of course. I’m certainly not having any luck.”

Narcissa nods, and Hermione knows they aren’t just talking about yarn anymore.

Narcissa frowns in thought, then mutters a spell and, with a quick flick of her wrist, the yarn unknots and smooths itself out, seeming somewhat chastised.

She sits back with a satisfied smile, and Molly demands to know how she’s done it, a light in her eyes that Hermione recognizes — curiosity. A burning need to know.

“Besides,” Draco says quietly, pulling her attention back to him, where he stands quietly by her side. “We’ve all changed.”

She realizes then that he’s spent the past several minutes having a civil conversation with her. With _her_ , for whom he’d never had a word to say at school unless it was an insult. And neither of them have thrown a punch yet.

Harry wanders over then and smiles abstractedly at her. “Hi ‘Mione,” he says, and then tugs Draco away, murmuring something in his ear and resting a hand on his elbow as he leads him closer to the fire.

Astoria joins Ginny at the counter beside Hermione and sighs, leaning her head on Ginny’s shoulder as they both stare wistfully after them.

Hermione shakes her head. _We have_ , she thinks, still mildly surprised. _We certainly have_.


	23. Golden Snitches

**October 2004 — London, England**

The owl reaches them just as they’re sitting down to dinner at the Burrow, freshly back from the Caribbean, laughing and refusing to answer Bill and George’s questions until after they’ve eaten.

Harry asks where Ginny is as Draco unties the bundle, and there’s an odd note in Mrs. Weasley’s voice when she says Ginny owled that she had a prior engagement, and she’d rather thought it was with Harry, and Draco doesn’t hear anything else because the words written in Astoria’s elegant hand crowd everything else to the background.

> _Draco—_
> 
> _The papers are on your desk. Everything’s done — all that’s lacking is your signature. Half a second, darling, and a few strokes of your quill, and we’ll_ both _be free._
> 
> _Don’t think you can change my mind, either. You may think you would be doing me a kindness to “save” our marriage, but I assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. We could never make one another happy, darling, and we both know it._
> 
> _I’m enclosing my ring. That, along with your signature, should break the final bindings between us, nullifying the marriage contract. The ‘easy out’ clause — do you remember when we asked our parents to put one in?_
> 
> _I’ve — I’ve found someone, Draco. She’s funny and smart, and I think I might just be falling in love with her._
> 
> _Please. This is the only thing I’ll ever ask of you. You know I’ve never needed your money or name. Grant me my freedom, Draco, and take the chance to seize your own._
> 
> _Your friend, always,_
> 
> _Astoria_
> 
> _PS - Do you remember how you kept promising me a trip to Barcelona? And all the other places in your stories? We think we might wander for a while, see the world. Maybe we’ll run into you and Harry one day, and we can all catch up over drinks.  
>  _

Draco snaps his fingers, a curious lightness spreading out from his chest, bubbling through his veins. It’s an odd feeling, he reflects distantly, as he sends the house elf to fetch the parchment from his desk, then gives it a cursory glance. Sort of… fizzy.

He signs his name with his customary flourish; the parchment glows briefly, then rolls itself up and disappears with a quiet pop.

It’s done, then. He doesn’t feel any different. And yet…

He glances over at Potter, who is scanning the shorter note that had been bundled with the first. Astoria’s familiar ring is in his palm, along with a second ring that Draco supposes must have belonged to Ginny.

He shrugs, rolling his shoulders as a band of tightness across his chest that he hadn’t really noticed eases.

A second owl flies through the window, and he feels the familiar adrenaline rush when he notes the return address. He tears it open, scans the missive quickly, and yes; it’s exactly what he’d hoped.

“Come on, Potter,” he says, lips curling up quite without permission. “Moscow awaits. We’ve a cursed scepter to find.”


	24. Weasleys

Ron is just about to ask Harry why Ginny’s ring was in that note when a snowy white owl flutters gently down to perch on the windowsill, and Draco strokes its feathers lightly as he unties the note. He glances at it, then stops in the act of tossing it aside and _stares_. A few seconds tick by, and then he’s tearing it open, muttering to himself as he scans it.

“What is it, Malfoy?”

Draco holds up a finger but doesn’t otherwise respond. Harry props his chin on Draco’s shoulder and peers down at the parchment.

“What do you think?” Malfoy asks.

Harry shrugs. “It’s in German.”

Malfoy blinks. “So?”

“I can’t read German,” Harry replies, rolling his eyes.

“You can’t…” Malfoy smacks his forehead. “Potter. Did _anything_ Granger spoon-fed you at Hogwarts stick?”

Harry opens his mouth to answer but is cut off as Malfoy mutters something and jabs Harry between the eyebrows with his wand.

Ron’s hand creeps toward his wand reflexively. “Malfoy. What did you—“

“Oh, relax, Weasley. It’s just a translation spell. Don’t worry — I didn’t expect _you_ to remember it.”

Hermione grabs his arm before he can lunge forward, holding him back as he splutters.

Malfoy doesn’t notice. His attention is fixed firmly back on the letter as he rereads it and taps his foot impatiently. Harry’s brow is furrowed as he stares intently at the letter, lips moving silently as he reads.

“This spell is bloody weird—” he complains, but Malfoy cuts him off, eyes bright, hair tousled where he’s been running his fingers through it.

“Potter! Do you realize what this is?”

They stare at one another for a minute, then Harry’s eyes light with apparent understanding.

“We, uh, have to go,” he says, turning toward the door.

“Wait, Harry!” Ron cries. “What about Ginny?”

He turns back, forehead creasing with a slight frown. “What about her?”

“Well… Well, aren’t you going after her?” Ron asks, baffled.

Harry turns to look at Malfoy, waiting impatiently for him at the door, coat already half on, then shrugs. “Nah. She’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”

“That wasn’t what I meant—“ Ron begins exasperatedly, but they’re already spinning away.

For a moment Ron can’t move, can’t think, and then his eyes catch on the parchment lying forgotten on the floor. He snatches up the one with his sister’s familiar handwriting and begins to read.

> _Dear Harry,_
> 
> _I won’t apologize for leaving you — you’ve left me far too many times already. Don’t chase me out of some sense of obligation; I absolve you of all of it. Just… take the opportunity to seize what you really want. I know you’re not prone to introspection, so just promise me that you’ll find the time one of these days to sort things out._
> 
> _I wish you the best,_
> 
> _Ginny_

Ron stares down at the note in his hands, silently wishing her well. He’s not upset at Harry, really. He’s just happy Ginny has stood up for what she wants. And relieved that he won’t have to watch the pain in her eyes as Harry leaves her again.

Pansy wraps an arm around him, startling him back to the present, and slings the other around Hermione.

“Do you think they’ll ever realize that they act more like a couple than either ever did with the girls?” Ron asks.

Pansy snorts in response. “No. But they’re happy, so I suppose it doesn’t really matter.”

~The End~


End file.
